Just Like Last Tuesday, Except With Zombies
by angel-dawes
Summary: Lima is infested with zombies, and McKinley High's glee club, along with guest judge Emma Pillsbury, hole up inside the school to combat the blood-thirsty hordes. Full ensemble fic with emphasis on Puck, Rachel, Finn, Quinn, and Kurt. COMPLETE.
1. Time for School

I know I probably shouldn't be starting another story while I'm heading on in to Finals week, and while I'm currently writing _another _story, but I couldn't get this plot out of my head. Hopefully everyone enjoys it! I'm also sure I have plenty of tense issues since I wrote this in past tense and then went through and changed it last-minute and I'm sure I missed some verbs, so I apologize in advance for that!

* * *

1. Time For School

If someone had asked Will Schuester what his idea of the End of the World was, back when he was still living with Terri, he would have said _losing her_. That was the kind of man that he was. Sure, Terri could be selfish and she lived in a world where she thought she was the queen, but he loved her. He always had. So when he wakes up one morning in his office and sees her silhouetted figure staring down at him, he's admittedly filled with a sense of relief and of peace before he remembers. Before it all comes flooding back and he feels the all-too familiar stabbing pain in his gut. She betrayed him. She made him believe that there was going to be a baby on the way, and then she ripped that hope away from him. There is no recovering from that. There's no forgiveness strong enough to overcome that horrible ache that he feels every time he realizes that he isn't going to have a daughter, after all.

He sits up quickly, hoping to catch her off guard, hoping to scare her just as badly as he is _terrified_ of his lack of a future, but then she does something entirely unexpected. She lunges at him, teeth bared and eyes red, dripping blood down her face.

And oh, God, _her face_. Blood-covered, pallid, gaping wounds and bits of flesh between her teeth. Bits of _human being._

If someone asked Will Schuester what his idea of the End of the World was after that day, he would probably say something about being attacked by his zombified wife.

* * *

Puck wakes up every morning an hour and a half before he has to be at school so he can go for a run. He only started doing it once he heard about his baby, and only because after Quinn called him a Lima Loser, he'd started having trouble sleeping. The only way to get himself tired enough to ignore his thoughts by the end of the day is to keep himself constantly physically drained. By the time he's done with glee or football, he's passed out so hard that his mom has to break out a marching band to get him up for dinner. And then he goes back to sleep. It isn't ideal, but it keeps him from imagining any sort of scenario in which he isn't a deadbeat loser just like his father. Fantasizing about things that aren't real is something that Puck has always hated. Maybe for some people, it makes them feel better. It just makes _him_ feel _worse_. His little girl is going to grow up never knowing that he's her father, all because the kid's mother decided that he's okay to cheat on her boyfriend with, but not okay for anything else.

Morning runs are sort of relaxing, anyway. He just puts in his headphones and _goes. _He doesn't have to worry about Finn finding out about the baby, or about his mom telling him he's never going to amount to anything, or about the fact that she's probably right. Plus, he'd never realized just how many of his new glee teammates live near him. It was pretty inevitable given that Lima was a tiny town, but it's still nice in a Stepford kind of way. Mercedes, Tina, and Rachel all live along his usual route, and sometimes when he's feeling really shitty he'll extend the run and see Kurt and his dad in their garage on his way to Finn's house to say hi to the weird little makeshift family that has formed ever since Quinn's parents kicked her out. He usually tries to avoid that inevitable downer of a trip, though. He prefers to just see the gleeks. It makes him feel better about himself when he sees them getting into their cars and heading to school for the morning, smiles on their faces as they wave to him. Smiles growing as he waves back.

This particular morning is quiet, and he turns the music up on his iPod to combat the eeriness of the silence. His feet pound on the pavement to the beat and he thinks it's lame but also relaxing how he just starts singing along without even realizing it.

It's only when the song ends that he realizes someone is running behind him.

* * *

Finn and Quinn are having a deep discussion about the better flavors of Pop Tarts at the breakfast table when his mother breezes in, late for work. She kisses Finn on the forehead and then barely hesitates before doing the same to Quinn. Quinn ducks her head as she smiles, her blonde hair falling like a curtain in front of her face, and both Hudsons see that her eyes immediately fill with tears. Neither say anything: Mrs. Hudson because she knows better, and Finn because he has no idea what to say.

"I'll see you kids later," says Mrs. Hudson as she heads for the door. "I'll probably be late, so feel free to order a pizza."

Quinn clasps a hand over her mouth and sprints down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. Finn winces as the sounds of her retching fill the kitchen.

"Mom!" he says helplessly. Mrs. Hudson just smiles patiently.

"Bring her a wet washcloth from the linen closet and go rub her back. She'll feel better in no time. Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm proud of you."

With that, she closes the door behind her and leaves Finn all alone with a throwing up, crying, pregnant girlfriend and a not inconsiderable amount of confusion.

When he tries to rub Quinn's back, she snaps at him to get away and throws up again. He's frustrated, but he knows that this is how Quinn gets when she's sick. She doesn't like it when people watch her puke, because she thinks it makes her seem less perfect, or something.

Finn doesn't think it makes her seem less perfect.

He sits at the table and nibbles on his Pop Tart halfheartedly, wondering if the whole parenting thing gets better or worse once the kid is born. He knows that Quinn wants to give their daughter away, but it's still something he's been wondering about. He knows that his mom always looks tired and he wonders if part of that is because of him, because he's not doing good enough or something. He makes a mental note to go check out the library and see if there are any parenting books. He's pretty sure that people write those.

When there's a knock at the front door, he almost doesn't answer it. Puck sometimes stops by on his morning runs to say hi and ask about the baby, which is sort of weird and annoying, and Finn really isn't up for it. Not with Quinn making vomit noises down the hall and his own stomach starting to churn. It's cool that Puck is trying to be nice to Quinn now, but it's still sort of strange sometimes, like when they were baking or when he caught them talking in the hallway that one time and they looked really serious. But then a frantic, high-pitched voice cries out, and Finn realizes that it isn't Puck at all. It's Kurt.

"Finn Hudson, you open this door immediately!" Kurt screeches, and Finn call tell that he's scared, so he runs into the front foyer as fast as his natural awkwardness will allow. When he pulls the door open, Kurt practically falls inside, then spins around and slams the door shut ceremoniously behind him. Then he stands there, chest heaving and entire body shaking like he's having a seizure. Finn is panicking, not sure what to do, and the first thing that he can think of is that someone beat Kurt up for being gay. He feels really angry at the thought, but doesn't really know how to approach the topic, so he just sticks to pretending like he has no idea what's going on.

"Dude, what happened to your face?" he asks, numbly handing over the wet washcloth that Quinn doesn't want. Kurt uses it to scrub the blood from his cheek, and Finn sees that his hands are even _bloodier_. And even though his jacket is similarly soaked, Kurt hardly even notices. Which, Finn has to guess, means that something _very bad_ happened.

Kurt doesn't answer for a long moment. He just stands there and breathes. Finally, he says, "There's something going on. Turn on the TV. I don't know if I can explain it."

He leans back against the door and closes his eyes, and Finn decides to just leave him there and go into the kitchen for the TV. He turns it on to the usual news channel, and for a second he thinks he turned on a movie by accident before he remembers that they don't get movie channels anymore.

"What the hell?" he mutters as he sits down at the table and narrows his eyes at the tiny screen above the refrigerator. The grainy black and white images are hard to make out, but it's pretty clear that there's something seriously messed up happening. There are fires, and people running, and lots of screams, and the newscasters are having trouble talking over the rest of the noise.

What he does hear is one word: zombies.

Finn gets to his feet. Ever since he and Puck watched a stolen VHS copy of _Night of the Living Dead_ when they were eleven, the two friends have been preparing for this exact moment. Neither ever admitted that they were serious about their belief that it would actually happen one day, but they were. They were _very _serious.

"We gotta go," he says decisively. "Kurt! Quinn!"

"Kurt?" Quinn shouts from the bathroom, furious.

"Yeah, long story. Come on! Stop puking, this is serious!"

Without waiting to hear what word she's going to use to call him stupid this time, he runs up the stairs to his room. Stored in his window seat, there's an accumulation of baseball bats that he has used throughout the years. His mom used to buy him a new one at the beginning of every season because she was proud of him for sticking with it even though she knew that he wasn't very good. Most of them are wooden, but some of them are metal, and those are the ones that he grabs. There are five of them, and he takes all five because he knows that Puck might be on his run and might not have a chance to go back to his house to get his own stash before heading to their designated meeting place.

He runs back down the stairs and tosses Kurt a bat which the other boy doesn't even try to catch. He gets into the kitchen just as Quinn is emerging from the bathroom, and he hands her a bat as well.

"I know you probably don't want to hear this right now, but there are zombies."

Quinn looks at him with disgust.

"Are you an _idiot_?"

* * *

Artie gets to school a little every morning to practice guitar before the day starts. His parents don't like it when he practices in the house. They say it's because he should be focusing on his schoolwork, but he knows they're really just sort of sick of listening to him practice the same songs over and over again. He wishes that they were more supportive of his favorite and possibly only real hobby, but he _gets _it, at least, so he doesn't mind taking about a half hour in the rehearsal room every morning.

On this particular Tuesday morning, he rolls into the practice room to find Mr. Schue already there. With his wife. On a mattress.

"Oh. Sorry," he squeaks uncomfortably, rolling back out of the room with as much grace as he can manage in his surprise (plus, trying to keep his guitar from falling while maneuvering the wheelchair out of the room isn't exactly easy).

"No! Artie! Help!" Mr. Schue yells, his strangled cry making Artie realize that Mrs. Schuester isn't trying to have sex with him at all. She's trying to _eat_ him.

"Mrs. Schuester! Stop that!" Artie says helplessly, trying to go forward and catching his front left wheel in the doorway. Mrs. Schuester looks up at him, and he sees that her face looks like someone has been gnawing on it. Were they eating _each other_?

There's no time to be confused or grossed out, because she leaps off of her husband's chest with a creepy amount of catlike grace, and then starts running towards him across the big room. Before he knows what he's doing, Artie raises his guitar in the air. The second she enters his arm space, he lets the axe swing out and catch her in the side of the head. With a gory explosion unlike anything Artie has ever seen on TV, Mrs. Schuester falls to the ground.

"Oh my God," he breathes when he realizes what he's done, eyes blinking rapidly behind his blood-splattered glasses. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Mrs. Schuester, I'm so sorry."

Mr. Schuester struggles to his feet quickly and runs to the door. Artie thinks for a second that he's going to run and call the police or something, but instead he pulls Artie into the room and slams the door closed before locking it. Artie watches with wide and fearful eyes, half convinced that Mr. Schuester is going to kill _him_.

But no. His teacher bursts into tears, instead, falling to his knees beside his wife's unmoving body.

Artie finally has to ask, "Mr. Schue…what's going on?"

* * *

Mercedes and Tina have lived a few houses down from each other all their lives, so every morning Tina walks down the street to get a ride to school. She and Mercedes don't really talk much outside of glee club, but they've always carpooled and when they were younger they used to hang out and play together in Tina's yard (because Tina's dad built them a fort). Tina's not sure if that makes them friends, because most of the time she's convinced that Mercedes doesn't really like her, but for at least five minutes every morning she thinks that they might be.

Today, she's a little early. Her parents are having another one of their arguments about the money they're spending too much of, so Tina figures that a nice, slow walk might be just the thing she needs before school. She hates it when her parents fight, because they always fight about stupid things that are just _so _boring to listen to. And even though walking a few houses down the street to get to Mercedes' house is pretty boring, too, at least it's not _annoying_.

There are only a few people out so early. Puck waves as he runs by, and she waves back with a brilliant smile. (Sure, she likes Artie, but Puck's hot!) Across the street, Mr. Gaston is shoving suitcases into his car, apparently getting ready to go on vacation. One of her other neighbors, the quiet guy no one talks to, is standing in his garden, staring at his house without moving. Tina narrows her eyes when she realizes that there's something very _off_ about the way he's standing. He looks drunk, almost, in the way that he's slouched over. She almost calls out to make sure that he's okay, but thinks better of it and just keeps her head down as she walks past.

She makes it to Mercedes' house faster than she meant to, but apparently just in time. Mercedes runs through the front door, backpack slung over her shoulder and clothes in a state of uncharacteristic disarray. When she sees Tina, she sobs with relief.

"Get in the car!" she screams. "Hurry up!"

"W-why?" Tina asks, some of her faked stutter coming back in her shock.

"We gotta roll, don't ask questions!" Mercedes replies, still screaming. Tina wants to tell her that she's going to wake up the whole neighborhood, but she thinks that would probably be counterproductive, and instead she just gets into the passenger side of Mercedes' Bug, slamming the door behind her. Mercedes hurls herself down into the driver's seat, muttering frantically under her breath, just as their neighbor, the one who had been standing in the yard, slams against Tina's window.

Tina shouts and pushes herself into Mercedes in her reflexive desire to get as far from the guy as possible, but Mercedes keeps a much cooler head. She puts the car into reverse and flies out of the driveway so fast that Tina would yell at her to slow down if she could even _breathe_.

"Hold on," Mercedes growls as she spins the wheel. The neighbor is running towards them, his skin mottled and gray, his eyes and mouth cascading blood, his left ankle twisted in an unnatural way. Over the sound of squealing tires, Tina can hear his ghastly moaning.

"What's going on?" Tina screams as they peel away from the sidewalk. Mercedes turns to look at her incredulously.

"Haven't you turned on the news, girl? Zombies! It's goddamn zombies!"

* * *

Rachel usually doesn't watch television in the morning, but she figures that this is an acceptable exception. She's got her eyes glued to the screen while she drinks her morning protein shake, hands trembling as she fights the urge to vomit. Her dads are both at work, and she has already tried calling them several times, but they're not answering their phones. She refuses to think about what that might mean.

She paces in her living room, dressed in what she thinks is a very appropriate outfit for the occasion: her sole pair of jeans, her sole pair of sneakers, a very casual tank top, and a well-fitting sweatshirt. She always likes to dress for success, and if she's going to succeed at surviving what looks to be the zombie apocalypse, then she's going to need to be appropriately attired.

She also has a fire poker, but she isn't sure how much good that will do.

"You need to find somewhere safe. Somewhere with other people. You simply cannot do this on your own, as much as you probably wish that you could."

She often finds that talking to herself is calming, but it isn't working in this particular instance. She needs to go somewhere. She needs to be with someone.

She is just reaching for her phone to call Finn when the pounding starts on her door.

"Rachel! Rachel, dammit, open up!"

And it's only because she's so desperate for company that she doesn't stop to think. She doesn't question who might be waiting for her, what state he might be in, whether she should bring the fire poker. She just grabs the weapon and runs. His voice calls out again, just as she slides across the polished wood of her front foyer and flings open the door.

"Thank God," Puck growls, diving into the room dramatically. She slams the door as soon as he is safely inside, not needing to linger on the disfigured features of the man who is following her ex-boyfriend. When the frame-shuddering thud sounds as the disfigured man slams against her door, she squeals a little, but manages to mostly keep her emotions in check. She's scared, but at least she isn't alone anymore. At least she has Puck.

"Are you all right, Noah?" she asks, kneeling beside him. He's sprawled out in her foyer, gasping for breath and shaking like a leaf. When she asks her question, he nods and grabs at his side, wincing.

"Yeah. I've never ran that fast in my life. What the hell is going on?"

"Zombies," Rachel replies.

"What?"

"Zombies."

"You're shitting me, right?"

"No. They said it on the news."

"They _said _zombies? Well how the hell does _zombies_ happen?"

"Illegal genetic testing is the current hypothesis."

"Shit, well…maybe."

"Does it really matter?"

He looks up at her stoic face and nods slowly.

"No. You're right, it doesn't. Okay. _Okay_. I got this. We have to get to my house."

"Why?"

"_Why_? Because I have a plan, that's why. Are you in or what?"

"_Fine_."

But only because she has no idea what else to do.

* * *

Once Quinn finally gets over the idea that there are seriously, _seriously_ zombies out there, they pile into Finn's car and drive to school.

"Not because I think we still have to go to class or anything," Finn is quick to point out after Quinn and Kurt level him with equally unimpressed glares following his announcement. "But it has really thick doors and lots of places to hide, and plus, our mattresses are still there and everything."

Kurt sighs at Finn's explanation.

"Okay, Ving Rhames, let's say we actually get there in one piece. How are we going to stay alive?"

"Puck will be there."

"…And?" Quinn asks expectantly.

"Why?" Kurt said at the same time.

"Because he will be. And…and _what_? We're gonna hide there until the whole thing blows over."

"Are you sure that's such a good idea? It seems pretty stupid to me," Kurt says.

Quinn has a much more simplistic, "You're an idiot," to add. Finn sighs.

"Just trust me."

And they do. They both do. Implicitly. And that's why they find themselves in Finn's car moments later, barreling towards the school through the abandoned streets. Finn is scarily determined, and both Quinn and Kurt are a little fascinated by it, and maybe a little turned on by it, too. They look at each other, understanding. Agreeing. Finn may be mostly useless the majority of the time, but they're both glad to have him. Because at least he seems to have an idea of what he's doing. At least he's doing _something_.

"We're all gonna be okay," Finn insists. Neither has the heart to argue.

* * *

Emma always tries to get to school at least a half hour early because she likes to start cleaning her space before the kids arrive. It's especially important to scrub her office in the morning, because there's no way of knowing what goes on during the night when she isn't there. The only way she feels truly at ease is if she _knows_ that everything in her room is sparkling. Assuming that nothing occurred in her office during the night (despite it being locked) is not an option. She likes to be prepared for everything.

What she is _not _prepared for is the sight of Terri Schuester's bloodied body being dragged through the front doors by Will, who is being followed closely by Artie Abrams in his wheelchair. In Terri's wake, she's leaving a smeared trail of blood that probably stretches all the way back down the hall. Emma feels the bile rising only seconds before she feels the fear.

She freezes, a numb chill running down her spine as she sees Terri's lifeless face. The blood, the mottled grayness, the disgusting gashes in her face and throat. It's too horrific for Emma's mind to even comprehend.

"Um," Artie says simply, and Will's head snaps up just in time to see Emma emit a tiny, horrified squeak. She wishes that she could be strong and give him a stern talking-to about what she assumes has transpired, (and involving a student just is _so _irresponsible) but she can only give that single, tiny squeak. Will's expression contorts into one of surprise, and it doesn't take more than a second for Emma to notice that he isn't looking _at_ her. He's looking _beyond _her.

In her haste to turn around, she nearly falls. It maybe saves her life. She stumbles back just enough that Ken's arms sail harmlessly in front of her chest, outstretched fingers barely grazing her breasts and causing her throat to instantly close with panic. And then she sees that Ken's entire throat is missing, and only a gaping hole of blood and tissue and more blood remains. Just as Emma is noting with a surprising lack of surprise that she doesn't feel as hysterical as she probably should (it's more like sadness laced with relief laced with remorse), Ken opens his mouth and roars. _Roars_.

And the blood. _The blood_.

It sprays everywhere. Her face, her hair, her arms, her legs.

The only reason she survives past the next few moments is because Will grabs her arms and drags her backwards toward the building, her wide unblinking eyes staring at the gaping mess of her fiance's neck.

Well, ex-fiance, is probably more appropriate.


	2. Dawning Dead

Finishing this was sort of a rush job, so don't hold it against me if the editing isn't perfect! I promise to go through it one more time tonight and replace the existing document to cleanse the more glaring errors.

That said, thank you SO much to those who read and reviewed! I was a little afraid at what kind of reception a zombie story might receive in the Glee fandom, but I'm glad the risk paid off! I am seriously flattered by all your praises! Sing some more, and I might just update before the week is out (well, if I finish my 12 page term paper on time!) Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

Rachel and Puck stand at the window with their heads bowed together in an almost conspiratorial manner, eyes fixed on Puck's former pursuer as he wanders through the garden out front.

"Look at his skin," Rachel says to break the silence, her breath fogging up the window. She leans back a little, looks at Puck. "Why does his skin look like that?"

"Shit, I don't know. You're the one who was watching the news. I was the one with the front-row seat to ugly town. I wasn't really thinking about _why_."

Rachel gnaws on her bottom lip and asks, "How fast can you run?"

"Faster than you."

"And he almost caught you?"

"Running isn't gonna happen, so get over it. We have to kill the guy. Smash his head or something."

"Well that _is _what they suggested on the news…should we stab it?" Rachel offers, holding her fire poker aloft. Puck shrugs.

"Yeah, sure. I can totally work with that."

He takes the poker from her hands and instantly transforms before Rachel's eyes into a sort of mohawk'd King Arthur. He may not be her ideal knight in shining armor, and he may not even be Finn Hudson, but if there's anyone crazy enough and badass enough to maybe survive the zombie apocalypse (and, she's hoping, nice enough to let her tag along), it's Noah Puckerman.

"What else do you need?" she asks. He frowns at her for a second, and she can practically see the gears in his head turning. She wonders what Finn would suggest in such a situation. She wonders if Finn is even still alive.

"All right. Let's get upstairs, get you some clothes, find you a head-smashing tool, pack up some blankets, pillows, shit like that. Get me duffel bags, we're gonna raid your fridge."

"I don't understand why we can't just stay here," Rachel says, leading him up the stairs and immediately diving for her closet where her sleeping bag is buried somewhere.

"How many times I gotta tell you, Rachel? _I have a plan_."

"Well _forgive me_ for not feeling too inspired after having heard that same litany four times in the last ten minutes without any sort of viable proof that you do, indeed, 'have a plan'."

"Just trust me, all right?"

"Oh, that's so much better."

"Shut up!"

Rachel thinks that it's interesting that after only a week of dating, she and Puck managed to gain some sort of insight into what the other is thinking just from a simple look or a deceptive statement. For example, he knows that she is only talking to him like she is because she's afraid and stressed out and lashing out at people is how she deals with stress. And she knows that he's only angry with her because he's used to relying on himself, and her questioning him is making him question himself. She forces a deep breath.

"Okay. I'm sorry, Noah. I trust you."

He looks down at her and smiles, and she knows him well enough to know that this is the closest he's ever going to get to admitting that they're friends. At least for today, they're friends.

"Okay," he says. "Thank you. I'm…sorry, I guess, that I told you to shut up."

Rachel nods and turns back to pulling her sleeping bag from the confines of her closet.

"There's a baseball bat in the closet in my dads' room. Plus, I think that you should grab the comforter from their bed. It will probably be rather cumbersome, but it's warm, and I think we shouldn't underestimate the importance of that at this time of year."

"All right, cool. Hey, is that sleeping bag big enough for two?"

Rachel shoots him a glare that he ignores. She sighs and nods.

"Yes, Noah."

"Cool. Look, if everything goes like I think it will, you'll be snuggling up with Finn in that thing and I can finally convince Quinn that I'm an awesome guy, so don't look at me like I'm a perv or something."

"Well, if you get Finn into this sleeping bag with me, I will be more than willing to provide glowing character references."

Puck grins and ducks out into the hallway, leaving Rachel to her packing.

"I'll hold you to that!" he yells from the other room, and Rachel cannot stifle a laugh.

* * *

"Oh my God."

"I know, right? Seriously, who comes _up _with this shit?"

"Oh. My God."

"Yeah, I know. Can you say something else? You're really freaking me out."

Tina's knuckles are white as she grips the dashboard in front of her, afraid to take her eyes off the road for even one second. Mercedes is barreling down the street, weaving around the occasional _zombie_, which Tina still can't quite wrap her head around. And it isn't at all helped by the fact that Mercedes is treating this whole thing like a minor inconvenience in her daily schedule.

"We gotta go back," she says finally. "My p-parents. They're still at home."

"We're not going back. Kurt texted me and told me they're headed to the school. Finn apparently has a plan or something."

"And we're listening to _Finn_? The kid who thinks that he can get his _girlfriend pregnant _from a _hot tub_?"

"Tina, I told you that in confidence, and I will _gut_ you if it ever comes out. That Puck is one scary dude, and I think he's been watching me. He runs by my house like every day. I'd say something to him about it, but…I mean, the guy already looks like he's ready to kill someone, and I think I pressed my luck hard enough by bitching him out."

"He runs past _everyone's_ house! And, you know what, you have bigger problems now!"

"True. But damn, I hope he's not gonna be at the school…"

"Mercedes, stop talking about Puck! There are zombies! _Zombies_! Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Yeah, it means things are FUBAR, and not getting any better. I get it. You said that three times already. Whatever FUBAR even _means_."

"It's…nevermind. I'll just _call _my parents."

She dials the number quickly, praying that one of them answers the phone. Usually when they fight, her mom flips out and won't let her step-dad answer. Usually, it's just another way that Tina doesn't want to be like her mother, but this time it's a _tiny _bit more important than that, and she's hoping that her mother has developed psychic abilities since Tina left the house so she knows to answer.

The ringing doesn't stop until it goes to the answering machine. Tina sighs.

"Mom, Ray, look…I think you need to stop fighting and turn on the news. Please pick up. I know you can hear me. Come on, guys, this isn't cool. Just pick up the phone."

No one picks up, and Tina throws the phone to the ground with frustration.

"I just got another text from Kurt…" Mercedes says. Tina slams her fist on the dashboard with more force than Mercedes knew she possessed in her entire body. If Mercedes' parents had spoiled her by buying a car that wasn't from a million years ago like she'd wanted them to, Tina would have been breathing airbag.

"Turn the damn car around Mercedes, or I swear to God, I'm going to punch you in the face."

Mercedes turns the car around.

* * *

They're standing in the locker room shower together, and Will is only just starting to realize how awkward this is. But Emma is crying, and shaking, and seriously freaking out, and the only word he can understand out of her barrage of sobs and mismatched syllables is _shower_, and so a shower is exactly what he's giving her. Anything to get her to stop crying like that, like her whole world is ending. He _knows_ she didn't love Ken, so he knows it's not just about that. Emma's reaction to emotional stuff is to get all quiet and then to go cry by herself somewhere so she won't be a bother, at least when she's around him. No, this is different. It's about the blood. The blood that Ken essentially vomited up onto her shirt and face and hair is on every piece of her exposed skin, and in her frantic desire to rid her body of it, she doesn't appear to know where to start.

"It's okay," he says, and he grabs the one of the bottles of product that he has lined up on the shelf. He doesn't know _where _Artie learned to pick a lock that fast, but he doesn't think that Sue or her Cheerios will be needing their locked box of swag anytime soon, anyway.

"Wife," Emma cries, frantically scrubbing at her skin. "Ken…his throat…oh, God. The car…"

She starts sobbing anew, her skin fading to white and then to red again both from the heat of the water and from the scrubbing. Will finally gives up trying to verbally placate her and pulls her into a hug. He knows it's probably not the best idea (he knows how much she hates being touched), but he can't think of anything else to do. He can't think of any other way to comfort her.

Much to his surprise, the hug actually seems to be calming her down. Her breathing slows, and though he's pretty sure that she's still crying, at least she's coherent when she tells him _thank you_ and wraps her arms around his back.

He wants to pull away, because he knows that he can't give her the wrong idea. That's his first impulse, to make her feel like shit because he doesn't want her to think that there's a chance.

But why shouldn't she feel like there's a chance? His wife is dead. Her fiancé is heading in the same direction. The world appears to be stuck in a Romero movie. If ever there was a time for the wrong idea to become the right one, it's now.

He pulls back from their embrace to look at her, at the blood smeared on her face and the red marks on her skin which look like, and probably are, scratches caused by her frantic fingernails trying to scrape the mess away.

"Remember in the classroom that day? Cleaning black boards?" he asks quietly.

"Of course."

"Remember the way you didn't freak out when I touched your face?"

"Yes."

"I need you to not freak out now, okay? I'm going to clean you off. I just need you to stay calm. Can you stay calm for me?"

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and feels the tears welling and the bile welling and the _fear _welling up again as she thinks of the way that the blood had looked, flying through the air towards her. Splattering on her face, her clothes. She really doesn't like to be touched, but she thinks she can stand it from Will.

"Yes," she whispers, her voice strained.

"All right. Close your eyes."

His voice is soft, and calm, and _so_ gorgeous. That's the only reason she's able to fight the way her throat clenches, the way her entire body trembles at the contact. She forces those unpleasant memories to the background, the ones that always seem to come with physical contact.

She hadn't lied to Will when she told him the story about her brother, about how she'd fallen into that pit of manure and had emerged from it an entirely different girl. That _is_ the reason she's always been afraid of messes. She can practically feel the manure on her skin. She can almost smell the smell.

But that isn't why she's so afraid to be touched.

But who wants to hear about that?

Will's hands move over her face, and she forces herself to imagine the way his eyes looked when he went to her after finding out about his wife's lies. She thinks of the way that his mouth sometimes twitches into that funny little smirk when she makes a joke. She thinks of the way he sings, and the way his body moves.

Because Will is her one exception, Will is her happy place. Kittens and rainbows and hospital quarantine rooms are all well and good, but nothing forces away the bad memories like the thought of him holding her, and the thought of her being able to kiss him without wanting to drink bleach.

At some point, she even opens her eyes.

She doesn't need her happy place anymore. She thinks she may have found a new one.

* * *

"There's another one!" Quinn yells.

"Yes, we know," Kurt groans.

He's been listening to her proclaim and re-proclaim the existence of zombies since they first got into the car, and he's not sure he can take it anymore. Finn, of course, has been treating these senseless exclamations like they're incredibly helpful. Kurt thinks it's mostly because he wants to take his mind off the fact that his mom hasn't been answering her cell phone, but deep down he knows it's because Finn really isn't very smart, as much as he wants to think that it's all just a dumb jock act.

At least in his fantasies, Finn is perfect.

"I think I have to puke again," Quinn says, like it's the end of the world or something.

Finn slams on the breaks and practically leaps out of the car. In the middle of the road. A car packed with people swerves around them, blaring the horn.

"Jeez, watch it," Finn grumbles to himself as the car breezes by a little too close for comfort. "Can't you see I'm stopped, here?"

Kurt sighs and watches Quinn scramble out of the middle seat just in time to hurl all over the pavement. The next car gives them a much wider berth.

"You okay, baby?" Finn asks, rubbing her back and flinching in anticipation. But this time, she doesn't snap at him or tell him to go away. She turns to him with a trembling lip and watery eyes, and she flings herself at him, latching her arms around his neck.

"We're all going to die!" she sobs. Finn, keeping a careful eye out because he knows that you never can be too cautious when it comes to zombies, rubs her back as comfortingly as he can.

"We're not gonna die, babe. Puck and I got this all planned out, don't worry about it."

"I don't care about Puck! I don't care! The world is over, and you're relying on _him _to get us through this? Are you dense? Are you an _idiot_?"

But she's still clinging to him like she's not even saying those things, so Finn doesn't let it bother him. She's clearly just hormonal or whatever.

"It's okay, don't worry. We've been planning this for years. We got it all figured out, all right?"

And Quinn just laughs against his shoulder because, really, what are the odds that she'd be impregnated with one zombie freak's child and then end up actually spending the zombie apocalypse with his zombie freak best friend. She's never even _seen _a zombie movie.

"I guess I don't have any other choice but to trust you," she says reluctantly, but he knows that she's just kidding with the tone. She _does _love him, no matter how much she calls him stupid or whatever. He knows she does.

"Yeah, I guess not," he says with a grin, trying to decide if he wants to kiss her or not, considering the puke breath but also considering the fact that she clearly wants him to.

Kurt clears his throat loudly, and Quinn takes the hint, climbing back into the truck beside him. Finn jumps in after her, slamming the door shut. He can see a zombie (or a person, which doesn't matter according to Puck, because unless it's someone they personally know and like, they're fair game) running down the street towards them in his rearview mirror, but he doesn't say anything about it. He just starts the car and keeps driving. More people are starting to get on the road, now, and they have to get to the school before anyone else does.

"Hey, Kurt," he says to break the silence. "Do you need to use my phone or anything, to call your dad?"

Kurt turns toward the window and says, "no."

* * *

Rachel knows that if she packs anything more than the essentials, Puck will just send her back to do it again. He's surprisingly leisurely about the whole thing, wandering aimlessly from room to room finding things that might be useful. She packs a few shirts, her sole pair of sweatpants, a few pairs of shorts, and a couple of skirts that she knows are completely inappropriate and useless, but they're the only sort of lower body covering that she owns. Two pairs of boots and three coats later, and she's done.

She thought that she had moved pretty fast, but by the time she gets downstairs, Puck is already waiting with the two duffel bags of food packed. He slings them both over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow at her pointedly.

"Ready?" he asks, and he just barely refrains from adding 'princess' to the end of that. She sighs and nods and looks around the room, finally setting her eyes on the pad of paper that is sitting next to the phone. She scribbles a note to her dads, and then straightens and turns to face him.

"Okay," she says, her voice quiet and entirely lacking the usual brashness that dominates her personality.

"Don't do that, don't go all soft on me. This is _not _the time."

"I can't help it, Noah! My fathers…"

"We'll figure out what to do about that, all right? Trust me, we're gonna be fine."

The look that Rachel gives him says more than almost any words could. He knows that she's scared, but that she trusts him, but that she isn't sure that she should, and that she just wants to be with _anyone_, and he was the first person who came to the door. Sort of like how he was the first person to ask her out, and how he was the first person to make out with her on her bed. She's just taking him because there's no one else to take.

He sighs and throws his hands up.

"All right, look. This isn't exactly _my_ first choice, either, you know."

"I know."

"I was just running and, you know, your house is just sort of right here…"

"I get it, Noah. I understand."

He sighs again, because now he realizes that he's making her feel like shit about herself. And he does _not _have the time to deal with this. _They _don't have the time to deal with this.

"Look, let's just get to my house, then we'll figure out what we're doing next, okay? It's not safe here."

"Okay."

He knows she's not okay, but she's good enough that she's not totally going to fuck this up for him, so he considers that a win. He leads the way over to the door, and she follows. Together, they face the door. He turns and smiles at her. She looks at him and smiles back. He hands her a baseball bat, grips his fire poker tighter, adjusts the straps of the bags over his shoulder. They solemnly nod at one another, and he hopes she knows that she's probably the best person he could be stuck with. Because she's absolutely batshit crazy, and it's pretty much guaranteed that she's willing to kill a few zombies to stay alive without the moral dilemma.

"Dude," he says, moments before throwing open the door. "Fucking _zombies_!"

And then they step out into the garden.

* * *

Artie wheels back and forth across the hallway outside the locker room nervously. He feels like a sentry, but not in a cool way. He feels like the sentry that always gets killed first, swiftly and stealthily, before the bad guys move on to try and kill the _real _heroes. If it were a movie, his disability would be enough to disqualify him from death, unless it was one of those really morbid black comedy movies, but he doesn't really see anything funny about zombies, because they're scary. And this isn't a movie anyway, so he's not disqualified from anything. And Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbudy are taking a _really _long time in the shower, which is weird on so many levels, but is also making him feel really uneasy.

He tries not to get creeped out by the way the wheels squeak slowly when he drives along the linoleum, but it's inevitable. He starts stopping every few seconds, convinced he's heard something coming down the hallway towards him, but there's nothing. And he keeps imagining zombies, every kind of zombies. Puck as a zombie, Finn as a zombie, pregnant Quinn as a zombie, Santana and Brittany zombies in their Cheerios uniforms. And, scariest of all, a Coach Sylvester zombie.

Then, he hears a car skidding to a halt outside, and a rough thud as the car hits something. Girls screaming. A horn blaring.

"Mr. Schue!" he yells, but Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury are out of the room before he can finish yelling, taking off down the hallway towards the front doors of the school. They're both dripping wet and totally clean, which is weird because only Miss Pillsbury really needed a shower, but he decides to ignore it, because he probably shouldn't judge. He _did _just kill the guy's wife, after all.

Mr. Schue reaches the door first, and Artie wheels in at a close second with Miss Pillsbury teetering on her heels behind them.

"What's going on?" Artie asks, frustrated not for the first time by the fact that the windows on these doors are way too high up for him to see anything but a strip of gray sky out of.

"It's Mercedes and Tina," Mr. Schue breathes with relief. "They just hit Ken."

Artie brightens at the mention of his friends.

"They're okay? That's awesome! Come on, open the door!"

Mr. Schue does, and Artie waves happily at the two girls who are standing beside Coach Tanaka's lifeless body.

"We got him!" Mercedes yells triumphantly, waving back. Tina raises a hand shakily, and Mercedes says something under her breath to her that Artie can't hear, then heads to her trunk. Tina runs into the building, practically tackling Artie and flinging herself into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing into his shoulder. It would normally be cool to have her this close, but this is different.

"What happened? Are you okay?" he asks frantically, rubbing her back automatically because it's really the only thing he can think to do.

"My mom's dead," Tina manages to get out, before she goes back to crying. Miss Pillsbury's eyes get even wider than they naturally are, Mr. Schue looks helpless, and Artie feels like crying as he clings to the shaking girl in his lap and tries not to think about his _own _parents and what _they _might be doing (or _not _doing).

"It's gonna be okay," he says finally. "We're gonna be okay. Don't worry, Tina."

"Why don't you take her into the rehearsal room," Mr. Schue suggests, and Artie nods and starts wheeling back down the hall. The rehearsal room is quiet, the rehearsal room is safe, and the rehearsal room will make Tina feel better about crying in front of him. That's really the only thing he can offer her.

* * *

Finn stops the car in front of Quinn's house, staring up at it blankly.

"I don't see why you even want to check on them," he says.

"I vote we skip it. I told Mercedes I'd be at the school. She's going to think we got killed."

"Let her," Quinn snaps. "I don't care about your stupid beard. These are my parents, and I know they love me, even if they _are_ ashamed to admit it. I can't just leave without making sure they're okay."

"Plus, we can get some more clothes and stuff," Finn says uncomfortably, because he's sort of embarrassed to admit that he forgot about that part of he and Puck's plan. The plan went: weapons first, clothes and sleeping stuff second, food third, car and school fourth. Finn went for the weapons and the car, so any opportunity to make up that little mistake and avoid being called a moron by both Puck _and _Quinn is a welcome one. Even if it means potentially running into Quinn's scary dad who probably owns at least _one _firearm (another good reason to stop).

They all get out of the car, even Kurt, because part of the plan involves never being alone, not even for three seconds. Kurt whines and sighs and makes unhappy noises under his breath as they quietly scamper across the front lawn, just to make sure that they all know he hates the fact that they're doing this. As if they don't all hate it just as much.

Quinn digs the spare key from where it's hidden under one of the many flower pots placed strategically throughout the garden. Her fingers are shaking, dirty, and sort of blue when she turns the key in the door, and then the three weary travelers stumble into the front foyer gratefully.

The heat, as always, is cranked up to full volume, and it's a welcome respite from the freezing cold of the outside air. Kurt's teeth are chattering, and now it's not just for attention anymore.

"Mom?" Quinn calls out, her ballet flat-clad feet making no noise as she traipses up the stairs. Finn follows much less quietly, and Kurt stays standing on the mat in the doorway, looking around distastefully at the rifle mounted on the wall and the deer's head resting a few feet above it.

"Are their cars in the driveway?" Finn asks under his breath. "Maybe they're not home."

"I saw mom's car in the garage. She's home, at least. I don't know about…"

Quinn breaks off as they hear something coming from downstairs. They turn, facing Kurt, whose wide-eyed stare is directed towards the basement door.

"Um, you two need to come down here right now. Something's in your basement and it's trying to get out."

He'll have time to hate himself for how squeaky and afraid his voice sounds, later. Right now, he's just hoping to avoid another confrontation with a zombified parent. Because even though this one won't be nearly as bad as having to face his flesh-hungry father, it's still not something he can imagine enjoying. Despite the fact that these people would probably deny him the right to marry…but the zombie apocalypse is hardly the time for _that_ particular concern, and a well-armed wealthy Republican's estate is hardly the _place_.

Finn jogs down the stairs and quickly pushes Kurt towards Quinn. He feels this desire to keep both of them safe, and it's a desire that's almost equally strong for both of them. He knows that this is mostly because they're both sort of into him (well, he knows that Kurt is _really _into him and Quinn is still into him _most_ of the time) and he's kind of enjoying the coolness factor that this makes him feel.

And it's for this reason that he feels the need to be all brave and head towards the basement door with his baseball bat held at the ready.

"Be careful," Quinn and Kurt say in the same instant, voices breathy with adoration.

He tries not to smile when he says, "I will."

* * *

Will is in the middle of helping Mercedes carry the hopefully-helpful and definitely heavy contents of her trunk into the rehearsal room when he hears the loud thud of the doors slamming open behind him. Mercedes screams and drops her cardboard box of belongings, dashing through the door to where Artie is already appearing with a music stand held ready to strike. Will feels nauseas as he thinks about how Artie's guitar smashed his wife's skull and is still lying on the floor in the rehearsal room, but he fights it down. He has to be strong for the kids and Emma. He can't show them just how freaked out he really is. It's not fair, but he's willing to do it. He _has _to do it.

He turns around ready to face whatever horrible thing is waiting for him at the end of the hallway. A blood-thirsty Figgins or a half-eaten Suzy Pepper is the last thing he needs right now, but he's going to have to face down whatever it is. _Who_ever it is.

But out of anything he could have possibly imagined, he _never _would have foreseen who is standing there in reality.

"Oh, hey, buddy! Can't say I'm surprised to see you here. Figured you spent another night on the mattress in your office while your wife continued to turn your sad little house into crazytown. I just came by to get the stash of guns I like to keep locked up in the tiles above my desk for potential scenarios like this one. I was just telling my posse here that we should check the rehearsal room, say 'hi'! Although in the spirit of full disclosure, I'd hoped you'd already be half-eaten like what I assume are the remains of the psycho formerly known as Terri Schuester lying outside on the pavement with her brains bashed in. I gotta say, Schuester. I didn't think you'd have the stones."

She strides down the hall towards him, head held high and flanked on either side by Brittany, Santana, Matt, and Mike. Her tracksuit ensemble is finished off by a similarly-hued headband tied around her forehead. In her hand, she holds a bloody baseball bat. Each of her four wingmen have the same.

Will just sighs.

"Hello, Sue."


	3. Zombie Killing Shit

Ugh, I'm sorry this is so late. Truly. I totally lost track of the days and couldn't seem to finish this chapter. The end's a little spotty, but I needed to get all the characters where I wanted them, and quickly, and I feel like a spotty ending is okay considering I want to get this chapter up quickly.

Anyway, thank you to everyone for reviewing! I'm seriously floored at how much response I've gotten so far! I hope you all continue to review, because it really does make my day.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3:** Zombie Killing Shit

Finn's sneakered feet don't make even the slightest noise as he slides across the hardwood floor, his baseball bat raised above his shoulder and ready to swing. The heavy basement door is shuddering now as whatever's down there slams against it while making that horrific moaning noise. It's definitely a zombie, possibly more than one, but Finn's not sure that Quinn realizes it, yet. But he's _definitely_ sure that flinging open the door and making her watch him beat her parents to a second death isn't the best way to go about breaking the news to her. On the other hand, he's not really sure that there _is _a best way. And she and Kurt are sort of hugging each other on the stairs, and Kurt _totally _knows what's coming because Finn's pretty sure that the same thing happened to Kurt's dad.

He's still trying to figure out how to bring _that_ up, too.

Once Finn finally reaches the door to the basement, he sucks in a deep breath. There's nothing that he wouldn't do for Quinn, and he supposes that includes rekilling her undead parents, but this is still not an ideal situation. Especially since now he can see the blood on the doorknob, and the bloody footprints that almost blend into the mahogany floor entirely.

Shit. He's going to puke everywhere.

He flings open the door and prays for a moment that they're not dead and they just fail at turning doorknobs or something, but his prayers are left unanswered. Mr. and Mrs. Fabray stand hunched on the top step of the basement stairs, their mouths agape with hunger. Quinn's dad's arm is sliced open, and Finn can figure that he got bitten by a zombie that came in from outside and then he and his wife took to the basement to hide. Then, when he turned into a zombie, he apparently bit that chunk out of Quinn's mom's neck where there's just this bloody hole, now. Finn swallows and swings hard. He would really like to turn this into a moment for he and Quinn; look over his shoulder, apologize for what he's about to do, something like that. But he doesn't have time. That's one of those big mistakes that Puck told him to never make. Puck told him to remember that this isn't _Left4Dead _or _Shaun of the Dead_. This is just him and zombies and avoiding death is the _only _priority.

His swing catches Mr. Fabray in the side of the head, and the dead douche goes flying backwards into his wife. Together, they go tumbling down the stairs. Finn closes the door again.

"Quinn, your dad has guns, right?"

He turns and looks at her and sees that she's staring at him with her mouth hanging open and her face red as she starts to silently sob. Kurt is rubbing her arm half-heartedly, looking really lost, and Finn drops his bat before running to his girlfriend.

"They're dead?" she asks breathlessly, eyes searching his for an answer, as if she didn't just witness the proof. He nods and swallows heavily before pulling her body against his like he always does when she's sad.

"Yeah, baby. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

And what can he do but keep saying that? Kurt slowly moves back down the stairs and across the hardwood, bending down to pick up the bat that Finn dropped. He looks up at Finn, and Finn looks down at him, and he really _doesn't_ want to deal with any of this at the moment, and he thinks that Kurt gets it.

Kurt opens the door and heads down the stairs into the darkness where the zombified shells of Mr. and Mrs. Fabray are still lying moaning on their backs.

And Finn just tells Quinn that it's going to be okay, and he has to increase the volume of his empty promises because then they start to hear Kurt smashing in the brains of the two zombies, and it's getting a little hard to listen to. He half drags her up the stairs and down the hallway to where he knows her room is (although last time he was in it, her parents were alive downstairs and Quinn was crying and trying to pack all the stuff she needed before her dad shot him, or something), the whole way telling her that she's going to be all right even though he's starting to feel like maybe she won't be. Maybe _they _won't be.

He needs to get to Puck. Puck will know what to do.

* * *

Puck hates to admit that he's having fun, but he sort of is. He's always been an aggressive son of a bitch, and he figures there's no better way to release that aggression than bashing in the skulls of mankind's new greatest enemy. He adjusts the duffel bag straps over his shoulder again, sort of pissed off at how hard they are to swing with. He hears a loud growl from behind him and nearly falls on his ass in his haste to whirl around and stab the bastard in the eye, but Rachel is way ahead of him. She swings a swing that a _pro _would be proud of, and the lunging zombie falls to Puck's feet.

"Really, Noah, you _need_ to pay attention to your surroundings at all time. This isn't a game. We don't have _respawns_, and I am _not _facing the zombie apocalypse alone."

She has a point, but he doesn't want her to know it.

"Yeah, whatever. I totally would have had him. I knew he was there the whole time."

"No you didn't. Why is it so hard for you to thank me for saving your life?"

"You didn't save my life."

She looks at him pointedly and he shuts up midsentence. He _knows_ that look. That's the look that Quinn shoots him whenever he tries to tell her that he doesn't care if she doesn't want him. That Santana used to use when he'd pretend that he didn't care that she was withholding sex. It's that creepy look that all girls seem to be able to use to perfection. Like they're naturally engrained with it at birth or something. And it always freaks him the hell out.

So without thinking he admits, "Fine. You saved my life."

"Thank you," she says. "Also, you're welcome."

And then she swings her bat down again and the guy's brains go all over the street. She's got her sleeping bag, comforter, and clothes strapped onto her back, so it really looks more comical than any zombie-bashing should be, but it's also badass.

And that's right about when it's _confirmed_ in his mind that Rachel is the coolest zombie partner ever. He hopes she doesn't slow him down. He'd really hate to have to leave her behind. But survival _is _the top priority, no matter what the cost.

"Come on, keep moving. My house is…"

"I know where you live. I'm glee captain, remember?"

"Shit, Schue gave you our addresses? Hasn't he seen _Fatal Attraction_?"

"Oh, what an original witticism, Noah! Once again an entirely unfounded comment about me _stalking _someone. What basis do you have for these allegations, can I ask? Because really…" she bashes the guy's head one more time and then primly steps around the bloodied corpse, throwing the bat over her shoulder. "Really, I can think of no past incidents which have involved me stalking _anyone_. In fact, after my increasingly frightening and unpleasant encounters with Jacob Ben Israel, I believe I am the least likely person to engage in behavior that could be interpreted in that way."

"Jacob Ben Who?" Puck asks, glancing around to make sure there are no other reanimated corpses approaching.

"Israel. He's the one who runs that despicable blog dedicated to my every move. Half the student population reads it because it functions as a gossip site for other students as well. And I don't think it's too self-important of me to say that half the student population _enjoys_ the fact that it causes me great discomfort."

"What, gossip like, for the school? That's so _lame_."

"We're in agreement. Except my main focus is probably on the fact that he has several times posted grainy footage of me undressing in the evening, but by all means be disturbed by the _lameness_ of it."

"Now _that's_ gross. Did you tell Figgins or something?"

Rachel shrugs moodily.

"And be further universally despised? There are a very few people who only mildly dislike me in this school, Noah. You and the others in glee, you're the closest I've ever come to having real friends. I know it's presumptuous, but I believe sometimes that it's possible that they enjoy my company. Not all the time, mind you. I don't want you to believe that I'm delusional, but…"

She trails off as she hears running footsteps behind them, and they both turn to see the person running at breakneck speed.

"Friend or foe?" Puck asks dramatically.

"You told me it doesn't matter."

"Yeah, but that was before I realized you'd be talking to me nonstop. If we can get someone else for you to communicate with, I'm game."

Rachel falls into a hurt silence as Puck slowly starts to realize that this entire conversation has been about how much she thinks she sucks, and he's just made it worse.

And the guy who's running towards them turns out to be a zombie, anyway.

After they're done beating him dead – again – Puck makes sure to tell her that she's awesome.

Because he figures that if there was ever a day to stop acting like a total dick to her, they've reached it.

* * *

Sue strides into the glee club's rehearsal room, the very picture of majesty and command. She knows that Schuester is crapping his pants at the thought of her taking lead of his rag-tag group of misfits, and that's exactly what she intends to do. Being the direct cause of a grown man soiling himself is her version of bathing in virgin blood. It keeps her looking and feeling at least ten years younger.

She gestures with her baseball bat to the cache of weapons on the ground in front of her. She stashed them in her office three hours after hearing about the Columbine shooting, and then she buried a bigger cache under the floorboards in the gym after 9/11. She'll be getting those later if necessary.

"You never can be too prepared, Schuester," she says as condescendingly as possible. "Something you need to learn. For instance, the fact that there's blood on the ground here indicates that this is where your wife was killed. Probably she woke you up while you slept on this sad little mattress, otherwise known as the remnants of your _life_. Tell me, William. Why wasn't the door locked? Anticipating a little early morning delight with the mentally challenged clean freak? Am I going to find an abundance of hand sanitizer and spermicidal lubricant stashed someplace in this room, indicating your disgusting and mentally scarring fornication? Poor defensive base, by the way. The gym…"

Will finally has had enough. The kids are looking at him with horror, Emma's eyes are getting wide to the point where he's actually concerned they won't go back in, and Sue's red-faced tirade looks like it's just getting started. Their rivalry is apparently going to survive the zombie apocalypse, even if they don't. And since Sue has guns and Sue has crazy, he knows he needs to stick with her. For the sake of the kids, he needs to make this work. But there is no way in _hell _he's going to let her beat him around.

"Sue, stop," he says firmly.

"Excuse me?"

"I said stop."

"And I said excuse me. If you didn't quite catch the tone, I'll try it again. _Excuse _me?"

"I get it, okay? You're prepared. You're an ex-Marine or something, and you're ready to kick some zombie ass. I get it. But the kids are terrified. They don't want to listen to us fight again. Can we please just settle this like civilized human beings?"

"Oh, all right William. You can go sit in the corner, make a love nest with the Disney Princess, and let me handle things. From here on out, _I'm _in charge."

* * *

Will retreats to a corner with Emma, Artie, Tina, and Mercedes. Brittany tries to join them several times, but each time she is snapped at by Sue until she finally gives up and stands morosely beside Santana.

"She's crazy," Artie whispers. Sue is standing at the door, looking out into the hallway with her arms crossed over her chest and her face contorted in a grimace of what appears to be deep thought. Tina nods and scoots closer to the group, swiping at her still-puffy eyes.

"I've never seen her up close before. Usually when I see her coming I run the other way."

"She's a badass, though," Mercedes admits. Artie sighs.

"Yeah, I guess. I think she's probably got a good chance of making it through this. Better than we do, anyway."

"That's why we can't just leave," Will agrees.

"She's going to get us killed! If she doesn't pull the trigger, she'll just take off and leave us here to die. She doesn't care about anyone but herself and her Cheerios."

Will looks at Emma with surprise. He doesn't think he's ever heard her say something with quite so much conviction.

"Well, Emma's right," he says. "We can't trust her. She's got a grudge against us and I have to assume it's going to carry over into the apocalypse no matter how much sense it doesn't make. We have to look out for each other, watch each others' backs. We can't rely on her to watch our backs for us."

"What about them?" Mercedes asks, looking back at the four glee members who are functioning as Sue's entourage. Brittany waves sadly. Artie waves back. Will shrugs.

"They're our team members. They chose glee over football once and they'll choose us again. They know better than anyone that Sue's crazy. They won't be caught off guard."

"I don't know, guys. Do you _really _think that Ms. Sylvester would just leave us out to dry? Sure, she's crazy and scary, but she's still a teacher. She's _here_, isn't she? She wants to keep us safe."

"Artie," Emma says gently, leaning across the circle with a smile on her face. "Artie, listen. Sue Sylvester is a second-rate educator at best and the only reason she's here is because she knows she can intimidate students into doing what she wants. Being here gives her a sense of power, Artie, and we can't let that happen. We can't let her think that she's in charge of us."

And although it doesn't really make sense, the kids all have to agree with Will's next words.

"We need Finn."

* * *

Finn waits until he can no longer hear the steady thud-thud-thud of Kurt demolishing the faces of the Fabrays, and then he tells Quinn to wait where she is and he'll be right back. She tells him not to go, but he doesn't listen. He needs to make sure that Kurt is okay, and he doesn't want Quinn to see the bodies. If the _mention_ of pizza makes her puke, he can't even imagine what seeing the corpses of her parents will do. Maybe she'll actually throw up the baby, and he _knows _he can't deal with _that_.

He hurries down the stairs just in time to see Kurt trudging wearily from the basement. When he gets to the top, he leans on his bat for support like a cane and looks at Finn with an expression that's hard to read. Mostly because Kurt's face is almost entirely covered in blood.

Finn walks across the room quickly and puts his hand on Kurt's back, leading him down the hall to where he knows the bathroom is (and he tries not to think about the last time he was in the Fabray's bathroom and on the phone with Kurt and about to make a huge, ridiculous mistake). He tries to say something like maybe 'hey, thanks for taking care of that' or 'it's gonna be okay', but he can't say either. He just leads Kurt into the bathroom and turns on the sink.

"There were more people down there, you know," Kurt whispers.

"What?"

"There were four. Quinn's parents, and then another couple. I'm guessing Quinn's sister and her husband."

Finn exhales heavily and tries not to think about the fact that Quinn's family is really important to her despite the fact that they were all really angry and mean and stuff. And he tries not to think about the fact that she has no one left except for he and Kurt, because that puts a lot of pressure on him to stay alive, and even though he feels that pressure anyway, it sort of drives him crazy to think about for even a second.

He hands Kurt a towel and Kurt runs it under the faucet, turning to look at himself in the mirror.

"I should be disgusted by what I just did," he says matter-of-factly.

"Well…" Finn starts, but he's not sure of how to continue.

"They're not people anymore. I understand that. I started understanding that the moment my father attacked me. But it doesn't make it any less wrong."

"Yes it does, Kurt," Finn says, relieved that he finally understands what Kurt's talking about, because Puck has told him this so many times that he knows it practically by heart. He says, "Kurt, this is about survival, now. This isn't about right or wrong. Nothing matters except surviving and helping each other through this. We're all that matters now. The three of us. Plus the baby."

"Right," Kurt says with a wry smile. "The three of us."

Secretly, he thinks that Finn and Quinn would leave him behind in a heartbeat if they thought it would make them travel lighter. And secretly, he thinks that he would make Finn do the same to Quinn if he saw any hope of that plan succeeding. As it is, he's devising ways to steal the blonde bitch's boyfriend before the day is done. It's going to be tougher than ever now that there are zombies milling around, but he's determined.

And when Kurt Hummel sets his mind to something, it gets done.

"You don't have to take care of me," he says seriously. "This isn't school with catty socialites and brain-dead jocks judging me for my orientation or the way I dress. Something tells me that zombies really don't care _who_ I think about in the shower. I want you to know that I'm with you, one hundred percent with you. You're right. It's about survival. And we're _going_ to survive."

Finn nods and smiles, and Kurt isn't sure if the kid is even paying attention, but he thinks maybe he is. And he thinks that maybe Finn understands that Kurt wants to be seen as his equal, not his subordinate. Not someone like Quinn, who couldn't take care of herself even when there weren't blood-thirsty monsters running around (not _literal _ones, anyway).

Finn finally says, "I'll go get some clothes, some blankets, food, stuff like that, and then we'll be on the way. You clean off, again. I don't want Quinn to see her dad's brains on your coat."

Kurt sighs.

"I guess at a time like this it would be ridiculous to lament the death of a couture blazer," he mutters dryly as he strips the navy garment from his body. Finn just chuckles and walks out of the room, leaving Kurt standing, feeling bitter behind him.

* * *

Puck and Rachel are jogging down the street towards his house, and even from all the way down the road Puck can tell that his mom and sister aren't there. The door is open, swaying back and forth in the light breeze, and the car is gone.

His first thought is: _at least now they won't slow us down_, followed almost immediately by: _at least they might still be alive_.

He really _does_ know just how fucked up it is, but the zombie apocalypse isn't the time to be working on one's mommy issues. In fact, it's probably the time to capitalize on his disturbing lack of empathy.

"Is that your house?" Rachel asks when she sees the open door ahead. Puck just nods. Rachel scans the front yards on the other side of the street, locking eyes briefly with a panicked man jumping into his car, before turning her eyes to Puck's face. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever. They'd slow us down, anyway."

Rachel nods like what he just said was brilliant instead of callous, and he realizes that she's under the impression that he's hiding his sadness for her sake. He almost _wishes _he was that nice, because she looks so earnest and helpful, like she truly believes that he's hurting deep inside and that she can maybe do something to help. It's just wrong. So he looks away and concentrates on getting them to his house without getting killed. There will be time to reflect on his lack of humanity and Rachel's overabundance of it later.

"We're gonna have to sweep the house," Puck says in as official a tone as he can muster so early in the morning and without his daily allotment of slushy flowing through his veins.

"Right. Of course. Because the door is open."

"Yeah. I'll go in first. Then I want you to turn around and close the door, then turn to the left. I'll be looking straight. Got it?"

"Affirmative."

Puck rolls his eyes at her tone and tries to pretend that he's not even _more_ of a dork when it comes to this kind of thing. They hurry up the street to his truck, then he silently stops her and gestures to it. They dump their stuff into the bed as quietly as they can, and then head to the door feeling a lot lighter. Carrying only a baseball bat and a fire poker, the two students burst through the door at the same moment. Rachel slams it behind them and then practically stalks into the living room with those crazy eyes she does so well. Her bat is held ready to strike, and he sort of wants to watch her do her thing, but he needs to focus on clearing his hallway, first.

They make quick work of it, and it turns out that there's no one there, anyway. Everything is fine, other than the fact that his mother and sister are supposed to be at home, and they aren't. He feels a twinge of hurt when he thinks about the fact that they just _left_ him here, but he forces it down. There is no time for emotional revelations during the zombie apocalypse. There is only time for badassness.

"Anything?" Puck asks Rachel once he meets up with her in the kitchen. She shakes her head.

"Empty," she says. She tests the back door to make sure that it's locked, then sits down at his kitchen table, like a student ready to be taught.

"So," she says lightly. "What do we do now?"

Puck knows _immediately _what they're going to do, because he's been planning for this moment for the past however many years of his life, and he's sort of pumped that something has finally come of it (while simultaneously being scared out of his mind).

"Okay. We'll need to go to my basement. That's where I keep all my zombie shit."

"Your zombie shit? You _have _zombie shit?"

"Rach, seriously, how many times do I have to tell you that I have a _plan_, okay?"

Rachel throws up her hands in a faux apology, and he decides that's good enough.

"Why don't I bag the food?" she asks. Puck nods.

"Okay, I'll head upstairs, get some clothes and stuff, some more blankets, cus it's totally freezing outside and I feel like it's only going to get worse by tonight."

Rachel nods and takes to her task like she takes to everything else: with so much vigor and determination that it's either scary (singing, mooning over Finn, etc.) or super hot (making out is really the only thing that comes to mind) Puck can still hear her packing away groceries like she was _made _for it as he runs up the stairs and tears through his closet. He drops Rachel's fire poker next to his bed and picks up a baseball bat instead. Then he grabs two duffel bags and packs them full of clothes and blankets. He takes the pillows off his bed, finally, and runs back down the stairs, calling to Rachel over his shoulder that he's going to run outside to put his stuff in the truck. She books it after him, carrying the food in his mom's reusable grocery bags, muttering under her breath about how he's disregarding the cardinal rule.

"You never go anywhere by yourself," she elaborates once she's standing next to him. "I've already told you, my fear of being alone overwhelms all others. I refuse to allow you to die and abandon me to the horde of undead, flesh-eating monsters."

Puck thinks this means that she's going to take to the task of killing zombies like she takes to making out. He's really not sure which one is hotter to him, and he doesn't have time to think about how messed up _that _is.

"Okay," he says quickly. "Back inside."

They head back to the house and into the basement, where Puck has spent the past five years building his lair. There's a couch, a TV, an X-Box, and a whole assortment of tools for surviving zombies.

He hands out the holsters, first. Designed to hold baseball bats on one's back for easy access, they'll be really useful when he and Rachel get guns (because they're _going_ to get guns). He also gives Rachel a belt with two makeshift pistol holsters, because pistols are useful even though they're not the most efficient guns (_Left4Dead_ taught him that). Then there are the bags of catcher's equipment to be used at a later time. He tells Rachel to carry those up the stairs. Then he grabs a laundry bag full of those giant bottles of water that his mom always buys him for practice. He's been saving them for the past three years. There are two bags, each one filled to the brim and double-bagged to keep them from falling out (those Dollar Store laundry bags are surprisingly strong, but they're not indestructible).

The thing is, Puck has been preparing for this inevitability for as long as he can remember. First his dad showed him that movie _Red Dawn_ which was old as shit but still scary because Puck was only eight at the time. It only really stuck out in his mind because the next day at school he realized just how much his school looked like the one from the beginning of the movie, the one that got attacked by those Russians. But he had still been able to convince himself that it was unrealistic until the World Trade Center was attacked, and then he went through a phase where he was convinced that terrorists were everywhere, so that was when he started building his underground bunker. Granted, it didn't make much sense as a defensive base because there were windows and the house led right down to it, but to his young self it was the safest place in the world. That zombie movie with Finn had really been the last straw.

So ever since then, he's been collecting things that might come in handy for a variety of situations. He's almost sort of thankful, because some of the things wouldn't come in handy for, say, a nuclear holocaust or a terrorist invasion. But _everything_ that he has collected is good for zombies.

He smirks to himself as they walk up the stairs. Santana and Quinn can suck on _that_. They both called him a loser for stocking up on stuff he might need. And if Finn has done his job, then Quinn will be _relying_ on his apparent loserness to survive.

Oh, it's just _too _sweet.

* * *

Will finally works up the stomach to go talk to Sue at the urging of the others. Emma tried assuring him that Sue was just a bully who would stop bothering him if he showed her he wasn't willing to be pushed around. Will didn't really need to hear that – he knew she'd probably gotten the motivational tools directly from a pamphlet on the shelf behind her desk – but the wide-eyed earnestness with which she said the words is making him feel guilty, so he decides to give it a whirl. It couldn't possibly get worse than it already is.

"Sue?" he says as he approaches the Cheerio's coach, his quiet tone hopefully getting across the point that he doesn't want to talk about this in front of the kids. "Can we step outside for a second?"

Sue rolls her eyes and leads the way out of the room, her shotgun clutched in her hand. Will follows and closes the door behind him, casting a long look back at his kids as he goes. He has to remind himself what he's doing all this for, after all. Dealing with Sue, dealing with zombies, he's doing all of this because of _them_.

Emma watches him go with her hands clutched to her chest and her eyes wide with fear. She knows how much Will hates Sue: Emma herself doesn't like to hate people, but she can't help it. There's just something about Sue that no one can bring themselves to like. Even when she occasionally shows flashes of morality, they don't last. That isn't the kind of person who should be leading the kids. Even if Will and herself aren't perfect, they're closer to perfect than Sue will ever be, and the kids need them.

"It's going to be okay," she says quietly to them as they hear the muffled voices coming from out in the hallway. Sue's four minions quickly make their way over.

"Guys, this is really scary," Brittany says.

"Yeah, what's going on? Coach Sylvester didn't tell us _shit_. She just told us to get here as soon as we could and told us to bring baseball bats."

Mercedes and Artie exchange an awkward glance before turning back to answer Mike.

"This might be a little hard to believe," Artie warns them.

Meanwhile, outside, Sue and Will are starting to come down from their heated argument.

"You know I don't like losing my temper, William. It's unseemly, and I'm always in a bad mood after it happens. I'm elegant, I'm calm, and I'm in control at all times. For some reason you and your overly-gelled _coif _push all the buttons on my hatred radar, and I'm sick of it. I'd find another place to hole up, but I've already got security cameras set up around the place, and I don't feel like taking another trip to Radio Shack. The employees there give me hives with their adult acne and their nasally voices. I can only imagine they'll be even more insufferable after death."

"Sue," Will starts with exasperation, really not sure how to continue. "I'm not saying that we have to like each other. We obviously are never going to start."

"Correct."

"I'm just saying that if we're going to survive, we're going to need all the help we can get. I know you probably think you can do this alone, but…"

"On the contrary, I called up my two best Cheerios and their football buddies in order to help me survive this thing. It was a little annoying getting them to the school without suspecting the reason for their near-kidnapping, but I did it. No one can survive zombies alone. I should know."

"What does that even mean? Sue…no, forget it. I'm not getting into another argument with you. We need to show the kids that there's solidarity to be had, here. We're all in this together, now, and even though we don't like it, we're better off sticking together."

"I hate it when you make valid points. It makes it a lot easier to overlook your glaring personality flaws, and I prefer to always keep those in mind. But I agree that you have a point, and I'm willing to accept these terms. Since it's likely that Figgins is dead, anyway, and the school system will probably never recover from the losses it's about to endure, I'd say my grudge against you is increasingly becoming baseless. As much as I hate to admit it, there's nothing for me to sabotage anymore except your life, and I don't see the reason of getting rid of you this early. If nothing else, I can always use you for bait while I make my escape. Hopefully, it doesn't come to that."

Will forces a grim smile and reminds himself that the kids need them to do this. The kids need them to be on some equal footing so that Sue won't kill them all with her crazy.

"First things first," he says. "What do you mean about video cameras? The ones that Figgins put in are fake."

"I replaced the fake ones with cameras of my own a few weeks after everybody figured out the truth about the dummies. I keep the monitors in one of the supply closets I kicked the janitors out of. I set them up around the perimeter as a way of keeping the misguided youth under control, but I don't think I need to tell you just how useful they will be to us now."

"No, you don't. Okay. See, this is good? We're communicating."

Sue rolls her eyes.

"William, it was a nice moment until you ruined it. Please stop smiling. It's disgusting."

* * *

Finn, Quinn, and Kurt finally pull up to the school with pistols, food, clothes, and blankets. Just like Puck told Finn. He thinks Puck might be proud of him when he sees it, but he knows Puck won't show it, because that's how Puck is. Finn can't stop smiling, even though he's still really worried about his mom and about Rachel and everyone else (but especially his mom and Rachel). When he sees Mr. Schue's car in the parking lot, he thinks he might cry from happiness.

"We're going to be okay, see?" he tells Quinn, and she forces a watery smile in his direction and nods. It would normally be unconvincing, but Finn hardly even notices. It doesn't matter, because they're going to be okay. Quinn and their baby, their little girl, they're going to make it.

When he doesn't see Puck's car, his heart sinks a little, but he's determined to believe that he's just running a little late.

"Let's get inside," he says, shouldering most of the bags. He sees Coach Tanaka on the side of the school, but Coach hasn't noticed them yet, and Finn's really determined to get Quinn into the building before anything happens.

Kurt grabs a few of the bags from the bed of the truck, and Quinn even takes one before they start running. Finn keeps a hand on Quinn's arm in case she starts to fall, because he remembers that falling is really bad for the baby, and that's an important thing to remember at a time like this. They're going to need all the babies they can get if they're going to keep the human race going (he learned that from _28 Days Later_, even though that one made him really uncomfortable because the soldiers were really creepy about it).

They reach the front doors relatively quickly and burst inside to find Ms. Sylvester and Mr. Schue standing in front of them. Mr. Schue is smiling, but Ms. Sylvester isn't. Finn thinks that she doesn't know _how _to smile. She scares him.

"Well, well, well, looks like your little gleeks have more resilience than I thought," Ms. Sylvester says before turning and walking back down the hall. Mr. Schue closes the doors behind them and smiles encouragingly.

"I'm so glad you guys are here. We've got Miss Pillsbury, Artie, Mercedes, Tina, Brittany, Santana, Matt, and, uh, the other Asian in the rehearsal room."

Finn's ears perk up.

"No Rachel?" he asks. Mr. Schue shakes his head.

"Well, that's probably for the best," Kurt replies. "She'd be trying to soothe us all with overdone renditions of Streisand songs and a lecture on why _she _should survive the zombie apocalypse instead of us. And I'm sure she'd find a way to fight me for a solo."

Finn says, "Shut up! Man, we're supposed to be _friends_. You're supposed to want her to be _okay_."

Kurt and Quinn just exchange a disparaging glance and head down the hall to the rehearsal room.

Quinn has enjoyed being the center of Finn's universe for such an extended period of time, but she knew it would come to a halt eventually.

"If she shows her face in this building, it had better be half-rotten," she grumbles under her breath. Kurt smiles to himself. He doesn't exactly _agree_, but he's not entirely opposed to the idea, either. And any sign of trouble in paradise is a good sign to him.

Once his girlfriend and gay friend are out of earshot, Finn turns to look out the small rectangular windows in the doors, and he raises his cell phone to his ear. Within moments, Rachel's voice answers, sounding frantic and scared. His hands go white-knuckled on the phone and the handle of the door in front of him.

"Finn? Finn, is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?"

"Um, well a further clarification of _okay_ is probably necessary, but I am breathing and mostly still in control of my cognitive functions. I am finding it _excruciatingly _hard to drive while speaking to you, though."

"Are you coming to the school?"

"Yes, of course. It's all part of Noah's _plan_, is it not? I'm headed to you right now."

"You're with Puck?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. He's behind me, driving his father's old van. I'm driving his truck. Apparently an unnecessary amount of _bricks_ are crucial to our survival. I normally find it best not to ask questions with Noah, but…"

"To brick up the windows! I forgot all about that. Shit."

"Well, as long as the two of you are on the same wavelength. Finn, I hate to hang up on you, but avoiding zombies is becoming increasingly difficult and my problems are abundant enough without adding a blood-splattered windshield and a flesh-hungry monster in the grille to the repertoire. I'm nearing the school. Please be waiting for me with some sort of weapon. I think I may be attracting a few."

With that, she hangs up. Finn turns back down the hallway.

"We need guns out here!" he shouts. Coach Sylvester appears almost immediately in the doorway, flanked by Matt, Mike, and Santana. Kurt jogs out close behind. Each is carrying some sort of firearm, from Matt's double-pistols to Santana's shotgun, to Coach Sylvester's uzis. Mike tosses Finn a sawed-off and nods to him gravely.

"What's the count?" Coach Sylvester asks, moving her imposing sunglasses from her eyes to the top of her head.

"We don't know yet," Finn says. "But we have two trucks coming with supplies, and they're probably going to be attracting some."

Coach Sylvester nods and walks out onto the front steps of the school, coolly surveying the parking lot. The area surrounding the school is mostly flat and featureless, save for the tree-lined driveway that melts into heavy foliage, obscuring the road behind it entirely. There's no telling how many zombies are already out there. The sounds of fighting, screaming, gunshots, and general rioting are growing louder, and even some flames are starting to peek over the roofs in the distance.

Then, Finn hears the roar of Puck's truck engine. He'd recognize it anywhere.

"Here she comes," he breathes, and he hears Santana's sharp intake of breath as the cheerleader braces her shotgun against her shoulder. He barely has time to hope that she knows how to use it before Puck's truck comes into view, emerging from the trees like a bullet and barreling down the tree-lined driveway before coming to a screeching halt in front of the school. Rachel breathlessly peels herself from the cabin, and Finn is so overwhelmed by the sight of her shaky, bloody, but still _alive _form that he almost feels like crying.

"Here!" Mr. Schue yells. "We'll get the stuff later."

Rachel shoulders one bag and hoists a baseball bat from the front seat, then runs towards the school.

"Noah's not far behind," she says eagerly. "And then be prepared. My rearview mirror looked like a bull run in Spain. Oh, you have guns! How wonderful!"

"There are some more in the box in your little glee room," Coach Sylvester says. "Is it too much to hope for that you've shot one before?"

"Of course I've shot a gun before! My uncle and aunt on my dad's side are very staunch Republicans in addition to being staunch Texans, and their dissatisfaction towards my evidently unorthodox parentage manifested itself in a desire to make sure I knew how to do everything that a '_real _American' ought to. That of course involved mastering the use of any kind of firearm known to man and some I'm sure they manufactured themselves."

"They sound like smart people," Coach Sylvester says, and then she turns back to preparing for the inevitable rush of undead things.

Rachel hurries to the rehearsal room and grabs a Winchester rifle ("My favorite weapon!" she proclaims giddily once she is back with the group, prompting an eerily proud smile from the Cheerio's coach and a disturbing proclamation of, "You remind me of a young Sue Sylvester"). Soon the loud roar of Puck's father's truck can be heard. Finn raises his weapon in anticipation, and Santana and Rachel brace theirs against their shoulders dramatically. Finn thinks it's strangely hot how Rachel knows just what to do with her gun, and just how to use it. He never thought he liked guns outside of video games, but there is no denying that they're more than just sort of useful at this point.

Puck comes into view in much the same way that Rachel did: all dramatic and fast and screeching to a halt. There are a few seconds of confused peace, and then all hell breaks loose. An entire _horde _of zombies runs screaming up the driveway, arms waving, blood flying everywhere. Some of them are missing hands, entire arms, chunks of their torsos. One guy has his intestines waving everywhere. Finn remembers he was playing a video game once and he thought it was so cool how they included the intestines thing. It's not really cool anymore.

"Fire!" Coach Sylvester yells dramatically, and the armed students all do their best to aim and hit the running former humans. Kurt, Rachel, and Santana are all freakishly good at the aiming part, and they hit their targets on the first shot. Finn has a little more trouble, but once he gets the hang of it he even gets a sweet head shot. Coach Sylvester pats him on the back proudly before firing her weapon casually and achieving the same result.

"Noah, run!" Rachel screams suddenly, swinging her gun in Puck's direction and shooting the _freaking eyeball _of a zombie too close over his shoulder for anyone's comfort. Puck is momentarily shocked into inaction, but quickly gets over it and sprints to the building. Matt hands over one of his pistols willingly, and Puck levels it at the nearest zombie and kills it.

"Nice shot, by the way," he says to Rachel, who is fairly glowing with the praise she's received from everyone so far. She has never been complimented so much in her entire life. It appears that the zombie apocalypse is good for a confidence boost.

"Thank you," she says, attempting and failing to convey some sort of modesty. "And may I commend you on your ability to swerve all over the road and hit every zombie that is in the street? My rearview mirror was more entertaining than any movie could have ever been."

Puck grins to himself as he fires off another shot.

"Glad you're here, buddy," he says to Finn, who smiles weakly in his direction.

"Man, you have _no _idea," Finn replies, and he finally believes the words he's been saying to everyone since they arrived at the school: everything is _definitely _going to be okay.


	4. Of Tracksuits and Teflon

Wow, sorry again for the lateness. Even more than the last time, since this is later. Winter break is over, though, so hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! You all are amazing!

* * *

4. Of Tracksuits and Teflon

Rachel thinks that when all this is over and things go back to normal, she will be famous. Her story will be turned into a movie which will attempt and inevitably fall just short of capturing the raw emotion of the situation. Hopefully not a Lifetime movie, but she'll take what she can get and work her way up from there, just as she has done her whole life. Some young starlet will want to play her, but she will ensure that she plays herself. And, because he saved her life several times, she will ensure that Puck plays himself as well. It's the least that she can do. Hopefully, Finn will be on board as well for the part of her romantic interest, but that part has yet to be written. Hopefully, it will be written well.

She's almost _sad_ when her last bullet goes through the forehead of the last zombie, because then the rush dies down. Her feelings of invincibility and importance all vanish, leaving her with fear and anxiety and an unhealthy amount of nausea. The steaming pile of bodies lying in the parking lot is sickening to look at, but she can't pull her eyes away. She killed fifteen zombies. _Fifteen_. There were thirty, total. Possibly more, but not much.

She is amazing. Blood stains the parking lot, and she is _amazing_.

She turns to face Finn with a smile but he is already heading back down the hallway towards Quinn and his baby, so she turns to face Puck, instead. He doesn't notice that she looked at Finn first, and he'd certainly deny caring if he _had_.

"You fucking _rock_," he says, holding up his hand for a high-five. She slaps it eagerly, glowing with the praise. She knew she was a good shot, but she's still finding the accolades exciting. She's used to being complimented for her voice and her dancing and her acting. Killing zombies is something that she _never _could have guessed she'd be good at.

"Yeah, Rachel, you did really well," Santana agrees, smiling with the same endorphin-induced glow that Rachel feels. Rachel can tell that Santana _gets _it, because Santana is a good shot, too, and she probably killed a quarter of the zombies herself. Not quite as good as Rachel, but Rachel is willing to ignore that for the sake of courtesy.

"You were excellent," she replies diplomatically, and Santana glows even brighter as she sashays down the hallway.

"Her, I'm not surprised about," Puck admits, looking with an adoring smile at Santana's ass as it shakes its way into the rehearsal room. "She's a blood-sucking bitch and her mom is scary as shit, so her being able to shoot a gun doesn't shock me. You, though? _Totally_ mind-blowing."

"I'm quite surprised, myself. And as long as no one accuses me of showing off or finds away to accuse me of being a 'diva' about killing zombies, I believe it's not too hasty to say I've found my new calling."

Puck smiles at her and they start back down the hallway to the rehearsal room. He shrugs and says, "Rach, seriously, they're going to be too busy worshipping our fine, Jewish, zombie-killing asses to do anything except kiss the ground we walk on. Trust me."

In his mind, this comment more than makes up for that douchey way he talked to her earlier, and the way she smiles at him is actually comforting. As he ducks into the practice room with her, he locks eyes with Quinn. She presses her hand to her stomach like it's her way of saying: _the baby's okay_. He would probably cry if he was just a hair more exhausted than he already is.

"I have stuff in my truck," he says to Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester since he's not sure which one of them is in charge (who's he kidding, Coach Sylvester's balls are ten times the size of Mr. Schue's head, and she's got pure evil on her side too).

"Is it anything useful or did you just grab your football uniform and a razor to keep that ridiculous hairstyle looking fresh and stupid?" Coach Sylvester asks with a toned down version of her usual fire. She's too busy looking at Rachel with a creepy grin on her face, like she's trying to imagine what size tracksuit she would wear.

Puck quickly says, "Just come see. I have a plan."

* * *

Tina and Artie exchange a glance when they see Rachel walk into the room. So _that's _why Quinn and Kurt looked sour when they walked in, and why they're currently muttering to each other on the other side of the room.

"I wonder if Quinn knows Kurt would probably get her bitten by a zombie just so he could have a better chance with Finn," Tina says.

"I don't know. Quinn is kind of smart about social stuff. She probably has a plan to betray him twice as hard, after they get rid of Rachel."

Tina feels bad for Rachel, sometimes, because Rachel really tries her hardest to be herself, and they all hate her for it. _Tina _doesn't hate her, because even though she's annoying, Tina really likes the fact that Rachel is proud enough and sure enough of who she is to ignore the others. Tina wishes that she could be the same, but she's the girl who spent years faking a stutter so that no one would talk to her. She's only just realizing what it's like to be _herself_. And the club _loves _her for it.

If she were Rachel, she'd hate Tina. She'd be jealous of the fact that everyone accepts her and loves her and doesn't care about how sometimes she says stuff that people think is weird, or that she's maybe the biggest nerd _ever_ (even _Quinn _thought she and Artie were cute when they dressed up as Helo and Sharon Agathon from _Battlestar Galactica _for Halloween, and even laughed at the admittedly geeky explanation of why the whole wheelchair thing worked in their favor). Because Rachel has been being herself all along, and everyone thinks she's awful. Tina feels guilty because Rachel should have more perks since she's been doing it for longer. Like a special senior discount or something.

"Hey, Rachel," she says quietly, surprising herself. "Are you okay?"

Rachel looks shocked that people can even _see_ her, and she nods before warily taking a few steps from the conversing threesome of Puck, Mr. Schue, and Coach Sylvester.

"I'm fine. A bit shaken, but physically I'm…how are you?"

She's clearly restraining herself from talking a mile a minute, which makes Tina a little sad. The rest of the club may think it's cool that they're basically turning Rachel into one of Pavlov's dogs, training her to shut her mouth and give them solos and basically become a robot, but Tina thinks it's mean. If only she had the courage to say something. Rachel _deserves _to get what she wants because she's the only one who cares enough about her dreams and the club to not care what people draw on her face in the yearbook, or what they call her behind her back and in front of her face.

"My parents are dead, but I'm okay, too."

Rachel flutters to her side faster than Kurt can do the same, and Kurt hesitates before continuing. Mercedes just looks down at the ground. Tina doesn't _want _to blame her, but she can't help but think that if Mercedes had only turned the car around when she'd told her to, or maybe if she hadn't driven away from the house so fast that by the time Tina even remembered that she _had _a life outside the Hell that was eighty-miles-per-hour, it was too late.

"I'm so sorry," Rachel whispers, her trembling hand holding onto Tina's with her own. "If there's anything I can do, tell me. I could go to your house, pick up things that you would like to have with you here, if you don't think you can do it yourself."

Everyone else is surprised at the gesture of kindness coming from the group's resident diva, but Tina isn't. Rachel has always been _nice_, despite being driven. As long as someone wasn't in the way of her singing career, she was loyal. Tina sort of even considers her to be a friend, a little, and she knows that Rachel thinks the same about her.

"You don't have to do that," she says quietly. "It's too dangerous. Anyway, I'm okay. I'll _be _okay. Eventually. I just need some time to, you know, process stuff."

Really, she thinks that the more time she has to process, the more she'll freak out, but she's willing to pretend for the time being that the opposite is true.

"Seriously, Tina. If you need _anything_, no matter how dangerous, I will help you. What you're going through, you shouldn't go through it alone."

Quinn looks up from her seat across the room and asks with puffy eyes and a tear-laced voice, "What about me? Should _I _be doing this alone?"

Rachel glances at Kurt and Kurt looks at the ground. Rachel turns to Quinn with the same kind of determination with which she approaches everything.

"No," she says with her chin in the air. "I know you are reluctant to accept my vehement promises that this club means the world to me, and that I treasure each and everyone one of you as my family, but it's true. I harbor no ill feelings towards you, despite what you have done to me in the past because we are supposed to be _friends _now. And it's doubly true now that we are facing what will quite probably mark the end of civilization. If we can't learn to get along during the zombie apocalypse, Quinn, there really is no hope for either of us."

Quinn looks down at the ground, balling her hands into fists, and says nothing. Rachel just turns and walks back towards the hallway, where she saw Coach Sylvester and Mr. Schuester disappear with Puck and Finn.

"That's not quite what I thought would happen," Kurt admits when she's gone. "God help me, but the girl's right."

"Let's not lose sight of what's important. The girl's a basket case and she's annoying as all get-out. No amount of stranger danger is going to change that."

Artie rolls his eyes at Mercedes and says, "Come on, guys. Rachel's right, and so is Kurt. This isn't high school, anymore. This is the real world. Who cares if she knows she's a good singer? Who cares if she's a little determined and talks too much? She likes who she is, and she _should, _because she's strong and brave and _nice. _None of us are any better." They look at him doubtfully and with mouths half-open to protest their own individual awesomeness (which, while present, is also totally counterproductive and not at all related to Artie's point). "Mercedes, you expect everyone to do exactly what you say at all times of the day and if they disagree with you, you act like it's the end of the world. Kurt, your comments aren't funny when they hurt, which is almost always, and everyone always laughs with you but it's _cruel._ Quinn…well, Quinn, you already know what you've done to all of us in the past, especially Rachel. Tina, you faked a stutter for _years _because you were too afraid to let people in. And I'm no better. I hold people to standards they can't possibly meet, and I shy away from taking a stand because I'm afraid I'm not good enough. But I'm taking a stand now because _none _of us are good enough, and that's the point. Rachel knows she isn't perfect. You guys don't have to keep telling her. Like Mr. Schue said, we have to work together now. It's the only way we're going to make it through this."

He almost wants someone to say something, to argue, but no one does. They just sit there and silently deny everything he's saying. But Tina reaches over and squeezes his hand, and even though he wishes she'd say something, let them all know that she supports him, he knows she isn't ready. And for now, this is going to have to be enough.

* * *

Finn has been quietly panicking for his entire life that something like this would happen, but now that it's actually going on, he's finding himself to be far calmer under the pressure than he thought he would be. He always credited Puck as being the only one worth anything in their operation, but he's actually feeling pretty good. He was really too shocked and scared to _think _about anything when they weren't at the school yet, and now that they're _at _the school, he's too _relieved _to think about anything. It's perfect.

He shoots at a zombie who seems to be stuck on the wire fence surrounding the school, and chuckles to himself when the doubly lifeless body slides down the grassy incline and comes to a stop in Principal Figgins' parking spot.

"We're going to need stronger fences," Puck murmurs after sharing an appreciative glance with his best friend. Sue nods, stroking her chin.

"Figures the one time Mexican laborers would truly come in handy, they're all probably corpses clogging up the freeways so _real _Americans can't escape the…"

"Sue!" Will exclaims, exasperated yet again. He's beginning to realize that this is going to become a habit very quickly.

"Oh, please. This country's obsession with PC Speak is undoubtedly the reason the zombies were allowed to get this strong in the first place! The army probably had to get permission before firing on those sons of bitches so as to not offend some minority group or another, and by the time they _got _permission, they were probably all screaming, whimpering hot dogs for these cannibalistic freaks. I was in the armed forces. I know how this works. Have you _watched_ the news, William? These zombies are spreading, and fast. This morning, there was an outbreak in New York. A plane landed from some foreign country, something small and dirty, and then things went to hell _real _fast. I'm not saying that it was Mexico, but maybe it was. Until we've ruled out all the other countries, I think it's safe to say our southern neighbors are on the short list. I've worked Border Patrol for the past twenty summers. Those are some cunning people. I'd admire it if I wasn't so against it."

"I _really _don't think you should be saying mean stuff like that. And it doesn't even make sense," Finn says, as bravely as he possibly can, because Quinn once told him that Coach Sylvester can sense fear. Like a really big, really mean dog. And if she senses his fear, she'll bite his head off like a praying mantis or something. He knows that Quinn was just joking about that last part, but Coach Sylvester has a gun and he's sure she's not above using it.

She turns over her shoulder and glares, and he's starting to wonder if it's possible to burst into flames just from someone looking at you, but Puck steps up willingly to take the heat.

"He's right. It doesn't matter why it happened, and it doesn't matter who did it. We can't look at the big picture. This is about us and us _only._"

"Selfish justification for willing ignorance? I can accept it. All right, Puckerman. First things first. What's in your truck out there?"

"Lots of stuff. But most importantly? Bricks. Finn and I did the math. We have enough bricks to block off every window on the bottom floor of the school. I also have boards for the back door, holsters, water, food, blankets…"

"I'm going to go ahead and assume that your calculations are horridly off, but hopefully your error is too many bricks and not too few. Otherwise I'll be using your head to stop up one of the windows. All hostility aside, you're almost as well-prepared as me. I like it. Hudson, Puckerman, Schuester, you're with me. Where's that other girl, the markswoman?"

"I'm here," Rachel says with some annoyance. She's been standing with them for at least three minutes.

"Oh, yes. You are. Your height is a disadvantage, but you're helpful and spunky. I like you, and I want you watching our backs while we unload the truck."

Rachel's grin nearly splits her face in two, and Finn finds himself smiling along with her for no other reason than: she is happy. In the zombie apocalypse, he has to figure that positivity is a good thing to have.

"All right, Rach," Puck says seriously. "Ready to kick some ass?"

She nods once, curtly, and raises her rifle to balance against her shoulder, tossing her head to get the hair out of her eyes.

"I'm ready," she says, partly to Puck and partly to Coach Sylvester. They both nod and smile at her, possibly a little turned on. Finn steps closer to get her attention.

"I know you're probably like, really freaked out and scared or whatever, but don't worry. It's going to be fine. You're like a really good shot and stuff, and we'll be there to back you up if anything happens."

Rachel looks mildly offended, which Finn recognizes because she usually looks like that when Kurt finds a subtle way to call her ugly, or Mercedes doesn't bother being subtle and just calls her a diva or something else that's sort of mean when she says it about Rachel but not when she says it about Mariah Carey or Beyonce (Quinn had to explain the difference to him one day, because Quinn actually felt bad for Rachel and thought Mercedes was being a bitch, which was something _else _that Quinn had to explain to him as well). Finn isn't sure what he could have said to offend her, because he knows she doesn't really care about anything except her voice and her talent, and he's pretty sure he didn't say anything about those.

He's already opening his mouth for an apology, but Rachel cuts him off. Which is probably a good thing because he's really not sure what he would even say.

"Finn, you have nothing to worry about. I'm sure I will perform adequately."

With that, she turns and follows Coach Sylvester out the door while Puck rolls his eyes at him and Finn looks around wildly like there's going to be someone nearby who will have all the answers.

"Dude," Puck says after a moment, taking pity on his best friend's general haplessness. "You really don't get what just happened, do you?"

"Is she mad or something?"

"Um, yeah. Look, I know you're basically a virgin who has only dated one uptight Christian chick in his entire life, so let me help you out. I _know_ chicks. I live and _breathe _chicks. And, you know, every girl is different. Rachel's actually a lot more like some of the cougars I've hunted than a regular girl, you know? 'Cus she's crazy smart and crazy determined and just totally _crazy_. But the thing about Rachel is, she can _do _shit. She's not like Quinn who needs your help to pick out what kind of hot lunch to get because her wacko parents raised her to basically be a hot fertility clinic and sandwich maker with a set of super strict, hypocritical morals. Rachel knows what she wants and she knows what she can do. And she _knows _that she can kill zombies better than anyone here, so to talk down to her like she _needs _your protection is actually sort of offensive despite the fact that she's like over the moon about the fact that you're paying attention to her."

That last part was not supposed to come out, but Puck supposes it's nothing that Finn doesn't already know. Still, the kid's face sinks like a stone, and it's hard to watch even though it's also kind of funny.

"Oh. Quinn and Rachel really _are _different, aren't they?"

He gets the look on his face that he gets whenever he's trying to do his math homework, so Puck slaps him on the back forcefully and tries to get him to focus.

"Just, don't think about it too much, all right? It doesn't matter, anyway. You have Quinn, and Rachel's going to forgive you no matter what because, fuck, man, she's all _Swimfan _on your ass."

He immediately regrets saying that, since he flashes back to their conversation about the whole stalking thing and she's _right _about what she said, and he knows that, but it's hard to stop making jokes that have become natural through years of schooling and torturing Rachel Berry being inextricably entwined.

"Hey! Rachel's not…"

"Dude, I know. Come on. Let's just go get the stuff. She'll get over it. She wants to be _my _friend, and she should hate me. She'll get over you trying to be her knight."

With that, he pats Finn on the shoulder and follows Rachel's rifle and Rachel's guts out into the parking lot. There isn't a zombie in sight, which is good, because Rachel's too busy talking to Coach Sylvester to really be of much use. Puck sighs as he watches them interact. Mr. Schue comes up behind him and looks about as scared as Puck feels.

"There's nothing scarier in the world, Mr. Schue," Puck says finally. When Mr. Schue looks at him with surprise, Puck continues, "The two of them talking? Liking each other? Shit, I thought _zombies _was fucking bad enough. Who knew the world had been hanging by a thread this whole time?"

* * *

Quinn paces in the rehearsal room, annoying everyone, but they're all too polite to say anything. Miss Pillsbury's eyes are glued to the bloody footprints that Quinn is leaving behind from when she evidently stepped in a puddle and dragged it around with her. She finally has to get up and leave the room, running primly in her heels to the front door to be with Mr. Schue.

"Sweetie, why don't you relax," Kurt says gently, but Quinn turns to face him with a snarl already on her face, and he immediately stops talking.

"This is ridiculous. I'm _pregnant_, and there are zombies. As if being a teen mother isn't hard enough? God is punishing me. There's no other way to explain it. He's _punishing _me because I'm a teenager and I'm pregnant and I'm a liar and a whore…"

Here, she breaks off into tears and plops sobbing into the nearest chair. Brittany and Santana hurry to her side, stroking her hair and whispering senseless words, their hysteria mounting.

"No way in _Hell _am I dealing with Barbie crying every four minutes for the rest of her pregnancy," Mercedes mutters under her breath to Kurt.

"There's no way God's punishing you," Santana says gently. Brittany hastens to agree.

"Yeah. That would be unfair because, you know, everyone's like dead and stuff, and on the news they said that there are, like, whole cities wiped out so…if God _was _punishing you, then this would be all your fault. And that would be totally extreme and, I don't know. That would suck."

Santana shoots a withering glare in Brittany's direction, which the other girl doesn't notice because she's now lost in her thoughts about Quinn being the reason for their doom.

"No. Don't listen to Brittany. This isn't your fault. God is _not _punishing you."

"You don't even _believe _in God," Quinn sobs.

"Yeah, well, I joined your stupid celibacy club, didn't I? I think that gives me enough of a right to have an opinion. Look, don't _ever _tell anyone I told you this, but Puck used to make me watch those stupid zombie movies all the time when we were dating, and they were sort of cool even though I know it's totally butch to admit that I like, you know, gore and killing and stuff. And, please, seriously, never mention this to anyone, but in the Romero movies, the classic zombies, they're not really at all like the ones that are out there right now. They aren't corpses digging their way out from beneath the grave, you know? And I think if God…"

"No, no, just don't start with that," Artie says quickly, rolling forward. "Quinn, you have nothing to worry about. This was a _virus_. A man made virus. You know, the government has been doing stuff like this for a really long time, and…"

"Conspiracy nutjob, much?" Santana interjects.

"Well it makes _sense_! And I'm trying to tell her that she has nothing to do with this because God has nothing to do with this, and…"

Quinn puts her head in her hands and practices the breathing techniques that Mrs. Schue used to teach her before she was a slab of meat in the parking lot with a guitar-shaped wound in her forehead. She knows it's for when the baby comes, but listening to a screaming match about the different types of zombies and the relevance of cinematic adaptations is a good enough time to practice as any.

* * *

Emma perches hesitantly on the front steps of the school, one hand on the railing beside her as if she's afraid she's going to float away. _Honestly, that would be preferable_, she thinks as she watches Will carrying an armload of bricks towards her. If a zombie were to attack at this very second, he would be helpless. Rachel is there, of course, wielding her rifle (which Emma is slightly afraid of because Rachel is a bit unbalanced and certainly too young to really qualify as a candidate for protector, even though according to Will she's a great shot) but Emma has long ago learned that putting one's faith in someone only gets one hurt in the end.

And since 'getting hurt' in this case means 'having one's jugular torn out by a blood-thirsty former co-worker or random Lima resident', Emma thinks that a healthy dose of worry is not completely unwarranted.

"Hurry," she says for the thousandth time, and Will smiles at her, although it is slightly strained. He gently lays the bricks on the floor and jogs back outside in time for Noah Puckerman to walk in with his own pile. Finn Hudson is close behind him, looking nervously left and right.

The sound of the rifle going off nearly triggers a heart attack, and Emma clutches her chest, her eyes opening nearly as wide as her mouth. Puck slips and almost drops the bricks, but finally lays them on the ground and spins to face the parking lot where Rachel has just killed a zombie. She traipses up to it as if it's just a prop on stage rather than a potentially harmful living weapon, and she prods at its side with the toe of one blood-drenched sneaker. Content that it's dead, she smiles and skips back over to the truck, assuring everyone that the 'situation is under control'. Emma teeters on her heels back into the safety of the school, leaning heavily against the nearest wall. Her heart is still pounding in her chest, and for some reason her eyes are filling with tears. Her head is filled with unwelcome images of Ken. She admittedly did not love him as she claimed to, and to be out of that engagement is more of a blessing than a curse, but she never would have wished him dead because (despite the fact that he pressured her into agreeing to the marriage despite the fact that he was well aware of her lack of reciprocation for his feelings) he was a sweet guy in general and did not deserve to die.

She turns to Principal Figgins' office a little ways down the hall and throws open the door, her legs shaking with the effort of remaining standing while _not _vomiting and _not _crying. As soon as she closes the door behind her, she hears a movement from under the desk, but is too afraid to move. It's only when the thing comes hurtling towards her that she screams.

* * *

Rachel hears Emma's scream from within the building over the sound of her own voice as she's telling Finn that he can certainly carry more bricks than he is currently holding. While Mr. Schuester freezes in his panic and Coach Sylvester continues to pile bricks in her indifference, Rachel is spurned immediately into action along with Finn and Puck. They race together towards the building, Puck with a pistol already drawn and Finn bending down in the hallway to grab the nearest weapon – a shovel. Rachel brings her rifle, although she certainly doesn't desire to see the effects of its shot from quite so close. She has learned already in the earliest hours of the zombie apocalypse that survivors cannot be choosey when it comes to weapons, methods of killing, and location. Killing is truly the only thing that matters.

"Get behind me," she says authoritatively to Puck and Finn, and they comply without another word. She presses the gun against her shoulder and turns the corner speedily. What she sees at the end of her scope causes her stomach to turn with revulsion.

It's Jacob Ben Israel, and he's clinging desperately to Miss Pillsbury's middle, sobbing uncontrollably into her shirt and soiling it with any manner of fluids. Rachel swallows and briefly considers firing a round into his head, but Puck slams his hand down on the barrel, pointing the gun to the floor before she has the chance.

"He's not a zombie," he says with a measure of desperation, like he thought she couldn't tell. She just nods and lowers the weapon on her own reluctantly.

"Oh, thank God you're here," Jacob says weakly. "I got here early so I could get a picture of Mr. Schue sleeping at the school for my blog, and I was almost attacked by some _woman_. I've been hiding in here ever since."

"Calm down," Puck says, rolling his eyes at the building hysteria.

"You're fine now," Finn replies much more diplomatically.

Jacob finally sets his sights on Rachel and lights up.

"You're alive! And you look so exquisite! I thought I hated all manner of weaponry, but…"

Rachel swallows her contempt and turns away, returning to the hallway where Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester are waiting.

"It's fine," she bites out. "Miss Pillsbury is fine."

Mr. Schue goes over to investigate anyway, but Coach Sylvester and Rachel head back outside.

"So what was the little germ freak crying about? Some spilt milk?"

"Jacob Ben Israel has been hiding in Principal Figgins' office," Rachel sighs.

"Alive?" Coach Sylvester asks with clear distaste. Rachel nods. "God forbid there be one bright spot in my day. The little vulture should have been chowed down in his sleep like the rest of this town."

"I couldn't agree more," Rachel mutters, firing a round at a zombie in the distance who seems to be having trouble negotiating his way over a fallen tree trunk. He splats face-first onto the bark and lays still. Rachel chooses to pretend that his hair is red because of genetics, and not because of the blood.

* * *

Mercedes and Kurt are welcoming but wary of their new addition, who smells like piss and blood and who looks like he's been bathing in human remains. He explains about a woman – most likely Mrs. Schuester, Artie points out – who vomited blood all over him. Santana makes a joke about how it's an aesthetic improvement, but it's half-hearted. She really can't be bothered to be mean, today.

Finn walks in a few moments after Jacob to see how everyone's doing.

"You need to get him to take a shower," Quinn says, looking green in the face. Finn nods and scrunches his nose.

"I'll take him. Why don't you go wait by the door with everyone. I think it's safer out there where there are guns."

"I've had enough of shooting for today," Santana says with evident boredom when Quinn looks at her expectantly. "And I don't think you want Brittany handling firearms."

"I'm a pacifier," Brittany says wisely.

"Pacifist," Santana explains to the other gleeks.

"Yeah, I don't like guns," Mercedes agrees.

"I'm okay with them, but I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime," Kurt says. Tina and Artie, as expected, say nothing.

Finn just shrugs and leads Jacob out of the room. Quinn follows him and pulls him in for a chaste kiss on the lips before heading towards the door. Miss Pillsbury is standing just outside, one hand on the railing, and Puck is laying a pile of bricks on top of another giant pile of bricks.

"_What _are you people doing?" Quinn asks with a sigh. Puck glances up and smiles at her.

"Bricking up windows. My idea. That way the first floor is safe."

He looks proud and sort of smug, like the fact that he's going to use bricks to keep out zombies is something that will make him worthy of being a father. Quinn hates the fact that he's trying so hard to prove it to her. It makes it harder and harder to reject him every time.

"Great," she says hollowly, sitting on the ground beside the bricks and starting to organize the pile. She avoids Puck's gaze until he finally heads back outside, then she swallows her tears and stares at her hands.

It's not that she doesn't like Puck. She _does_. He's becoming a nice person, however slowly, and he obviously cares about the fact that he's going to have a kid. She knows that he would make a good father, because he's so determined not to be like his own that he's willing to do anything in order to prove it to himself. But she doesn't love him. She doesn't want to give up Finn, the boy she _really_ loves, just because one night she felt down on herself and Puck just kept saying all the right things.

She doesn't think he did it on purpose, but the suspicion is still there. And even if it wasn't, even if their night had been magical and beautiful and the perfect way to lose a girl's virginity (other than waiting for marriage), then it _still _would have been a mistake. Finn is her dream guy. Her happily ever after. Puck is a wonderful boy, a deeply wonderful person, and if Finn didn't exist then maybe there would be room in her life for him. But Finn _does _exist. And Quinn loves _him_.

She hears someone quickly approaching, and looks up to see Rachel staring down at her with a smile. It's hard to tell if it's faked or not. She has a feeling that Rachel didn't have a whole lot to smile about even _before _the dead started walking, and her reasons have probably gone down considerably since. But she's always just been smiling on, acting like she doesn't notice the taunts and the teases. It used to be infuriating. Now, Quinn is jealous. She's always hated those insanely morose girls who glide around school with their heads down low and their laments growing louder the more people don't pay attention to them. Now she's one of them.

"Where are your parents?" she asks. She doesn't think she's trying to break down Rachel's smile on purpose, but she feels a twinge of victory (mixed with just a dash of guilt) when the grin slides from the other girl's face.

"I choose to believe they're alive. Happy. Absent-minded enough to have left their cell phones in places where they cannot hear my ringtone every three minutes."

"Mine are dead."

"Yes, I know."

"Did _Finn _tell you that?"

"No. He didn't have to. I understood from what you said about Tina. I'm sorry, Quinn. I can't imagine what you must be feeling."

"Yeah, well, you probably will in a few days."

Rachel doesn't recoil like Quinn expected her to. She just nods.

"I suppose you're right. Steeling myself to the inevitability of losing at least one of my fathers would probably be wise."

Quinn sighs a little and tries not to feel guilty as Rachel takes her cue to leave.

"Wait," she says, practically growling the word. She can picture Finn's disappointment if he were to somehow hear about her treatment of his _real _favorite person in the world (she wouldn't put it past Rachel to tell him herself, the bitch). She can picture the way he would fumblingly (adorably) try to explain to Rachel that Quinn is just going through a hard time with the pregnancy and that it isn't her fault (and it certainly isn't _Rachel's _fault, because Rachel is a perfect angel who can do no wrong).

"Yes?" Rachel prompts primly. Quinn can practically feel her teeth grinding together. Why does Rachel always have to look as if things are so _easy _for her? Things should be easy for _Quinn_. Her parents are wealthy, her hair is blonde, and her body is near-perfect. Instead, she's been kicked out of her house, has cheated on her boyfriend with his idiot best friend, is _pregnant_, and is barely holding on to her relationship because of some dowdy choir girl with a creepy crush. And that's _before _you factor in the zombies. Rachel should have it harder than her, but instead she walks around acting like none of it matters.

"I'm glad your parents might be okay," she practically spits at the other girl. "I'm sorry. I'm projecting. My parents were…they kicked me out, you knew that. But that doesn't mean I wanted them dead."

"Of course not," Rachel says tolerantly, graciously.

"I just think…how can you hope for anything? This is the end of the world, right?"

"According to the movies, I suppose. But if we can fortify ourselves, if we can avoid falling into classic tropes, if we can hold up here long enough for the army or _someone _to regain control of the situation…I don't know, Quinn, I think we have a decent chance at escaping this with our lives."

"How can you be so optimistic?"

"Quinn, I swore to myself when I was five years old that I would get out of this Cow Town and I would make a name for myself. It was a promise that I intended to keep until this morning, until I saw the news and until I realized that nothing was going to be the same. Now, I have realized that I must apply my natural upbeat attitude and my penchant for looking on the bright side to helping us survive. And we _will _survive."

Quinn, gazing up at Rachel, realizes for the first time that her bullying has not broken Rachel down even one iota. She may momentarily lose focus of her goals, and she may feel down on herself and like she isn't strong enough, but in the end, it has only made her stronger.

It's possibly the most fulfilling and simultaneously terrifying thing that she has ever realized.

* * *

When the bricks are finally lying in a neat pile in the hallway (neatness courtesy of Quinn), everyone gathers in the rehearsal room once again. Rachel and Puck stand beside Mr. Schuester and Coach Sylvester at the front of the room, their feelings of superiority about themselves evident even from the moderate distance. The other glee clubbers mutter to themselves about the unfairness of it all, but are quickly silenced by a glare from Artie and a disappointed sniff from Tina.

Talk about two people who think they're better than everyone else.

The affections of the glee club are fickle, Rachel knows, but it's still a little surprising to witness how quickly they go from resenting she and Puck to resenting Artie and Tina. She knows it is a truly awful thing to consider, but it's also noteworthy that zombies aren't fickle. Zombies don't care if a person is annoying or if they are the most normal person in the world. They will still hunt and bite and eat anyone in their path.

It's quite insightful, but also not an appropriate topic to approach with her classmates, so she keeps quiet and allows Coach Sylvester to speak.

"Listen up, mouth breathers. I know this crisis is cutting into your schedules of not having lives, but you're going to have to get over it. I don't care about your feelings or about the fact that you want your mommys. I care about _breathing_. If anyone wants to sit around and mope, they can go do that somewhere else. Because as long as you're here, you're going to be pulling your own weight. And, no, Mariah, I don't care about your manicure, and gay kid, I don't care _who _you are wearing. We're bricking up every damn ground-floor window in this place, and we're doing it now, while it's still light out. God only knows what happens to these maggots when the sun goes down. Is everybody getting this, or do I need to sing it before you can understand?"

Everyone is silent, afraid to speak up. They've all dealt with Coach Sylvester enough at this point to know that arguing with her never goes well for anyone involved. The adrenaline of conflict only makes her stronger. Will steps up, because he has to. Not because he wants to.

"All right, I think we should divide the labor a little. Santana and Rachel are obviously the best at shooting, so I think they should be guarding the rest of us while we're bricking up the school. We should also start moving all our stuff upstairs, because it's easier to guard two staircases than it is to guard three entrances and a bunch of brick walls which may or may not even hold up all that well."

"All very good points, William," Coach Sylvester says diplomatically.

"I'd be proud to ensure that our bricklayers are safe," Rachel agrees with a wide grin.

"Fantastic. Santana?"

"Whatever," Santana sighs. "I'd rather not, but…I guess it's better than putting bricks down, or whatever."

"We're going to be fine," Finn says enthusiastically, although no one asked.

"Positive thinking is very important," Emma agrees.

Puck just sighs and looks at Rachel. She's wearing that smile that he recognizes well – because she wears it almost all the time. It's the smile that tells him that she's not nearly as confident as she's pretending to be, and he knows that she's on his side with this one. She's thinking, just like he is, that everyone has already become complacent. That they believe that everything is going to be fine, and they're not going to be as prepared for bad situations as they probably should be. That won't do at all. They need to be prepared for anything. For _everything_.

Rachel catches his eye and smiles a little. And it's only when he sets his sights on the weapon in Rachel's hand that he gets an idea.

"You know what?" he says loudly, stepping a little closer to Coach Sylvester. "I think Rachel and I should go back out there."

"What?" asks the room, practically in unison.

"Yeah! Look, it's been a few hours so that means that people are finally starting to wake up and people are starting to realize that shit's hitting the fan. That means that shit's about to _truly _hit the fan, and I think it's safe to say that we want to be prepared for that. Because that means that people are going to start hitting stores, looting shit to stock up in their basements. We're going to _need _that food, you know? We're going to need that stuff to say alive. I think that Rachel and I should go out and get it."

"Why Rachel and you?" Finn asks, his suspicious glare not nearly as unnerving as he probably thinks it is.

"Because we make an awesome fucking team, that's why. We're both fast, calm under pressure, and we can shoot like hell. All things that we're going to need to fight our way through crowds of zombies and people combined."

"I'll go with them," Mr. Schuester offers. "We can't let them go alone."

"All right, all right, let me think for a second," Coach Sylvester murmurs, musing over this latest development in planning. Quinn places her hand over her stomach and surprises herself by speaking.

"I think Puck's right. We're not going to be able to survive for long on whatever was supposed to be for lunch today. We're going to need other stuff. Cans of food, blankets, drinks, pillows, stuff like that. If they go to the Wal-Mart with the Target right next to it, they should be able to get plenty of stuff that we might need. Candles, even. Gas for the generators for when the power goes out. There's so much stuff that we need to be prepared for. Bricks, guns, that's only the first step."

"She's right," Rachel says with her smile almost splitting her face in two. "We need to look at the big picture. And Puck is right, too. We can't get complacent just because we've managed to survive an initial wave of attacks. We need to fortify this building to the best of our abilities, and that's not going to happen unless we cover all our bases."

Quinn knows that agreeing with Rachel is practically the kiss of death in this club, probably at least a little because of the nasty rumors she's been spreading about the girl since their early elementary school days, but she doesn't care. The time for pettiness is over. If the other glee clubbers can't realize that, it's _their_ problem.

"Exactly," she says.

"All right, Q. You make some valid points. Puckerman, Berry, Schuester, take guns and take your baseball bats."

Rachel shows Puck the holster that he gave her back at his house, complete with a baseball bat inside. He grins a little and realizes that he was more correct about Rachel than he could have even believed at first. She's the perfect partner.

* * *

The glee club stands on the front steps of the school and wave as they watch Puck, Rachel, and Mr. Schuester drive off in Puck's truck on their way to the Wal-Mart with the Target right next to it.

"They're going to be fine," Finn says, even though no one asked.

The fact is that no one can know for sure what's going to happen. Tina watches Rachel's smile and Rachel's bravery drive off into the sunrise, and she wonders what's going on elsewhere in the world. She wonders if the army is mobilizing, if they're starting to sweep through towns like Lima, taking out the threats. She wonders if there's hope for the world after all, or if it's going to be just small places like Lima High School, boarded up against the outside world for as long as they're still alive.

How long can they realistically last? How long can they stay in one building, living off supplies from Wal-Mart and trying to stay positive?

Everyone else seems to be hopeful as they watch their three heroes drive away, but Tina feels like this is just the beginning of the hard stuff.

Finn's wrong. They're _not _going to be fine.

It's the end of the fucking world. And not just in an overdramatic high school way, like how Artie being mad at her was the end of the world until he forgave her. It's the end of the world in an apocalypse way. The kind of thing that people don't bounce back from.

If they're going to survive, it's going to take a miracle. And Tina? She's not even sure she believes in God.


	5. Existentialism and Reverse Frogger

All right, now that I've finally recovered from the epicness of the _Dollhouse _series finale (which, combined with my productivity-crippling love of Tahmoh Penikett in just about anything, is bad news), my truly deplorable course load, and a nasty bout of food poisoning, I've managed to finish this chapter at last!

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed (especially those who appreciated the Helo and Athena references), and please consider reviewing again!

* * *

Chapter 5 - Existentialism and Reverse Frogger

Quinn's internal crisis is very quickly beginning to border on _existential_. She knows that it's early – after all, they've only been at school for a few hours. They don't even know if this is the kind of thing that's going to mark the end of civilization (although Artie's pretty convincing, and he's freaking the rest of them out with his statements about zombie movies and the unfortunate truths about the army's incompetence that are apparently present in them), or if it's like Miss Pillsbury says and it's something that will clear up in a few days, like it's a pimple and not a raging apocalypse from Hell.

With Puck, Rachel, and Mr. Schue temporarily out of the picture, the rest of the glee kids get to work bricking up the windows on the first floor. Quinn manages to get Coach Sylvester to let her keep lookout for any zombies approaching from the front (pulling the pregnancy card doesn't get much _respect_ from her former coach, but it gets her out of manual labor, and that's good enough for her, for now), while Finn and Santana patrol the outside of the building that the kids are working on. One or the other is usually within earshot, but they're focused on their work (admittedly a plus), and Quinn has a lot of time for introspection. Which is bad, she quickly discovers.

The last time she experienced an existential crisis, it led her to question the existence of God. She had found herself unable to shave that pesky final pound off her goal weight, Coach Sylvester had verbally assaulted her in front of the entire team, and Finn had called her a "mean person" after she told him about the hilarious pictures she had drawn of Rachel Berry in the girl's bathroom (she knew that such blatant disregard of her Christian upbringing was technically against her beliefs, but she was never one to deny the pressures of her peers. They counted on her for hilarity). She was a good Christian girl who adhered to the values instilled in her by her parents, so why was it that life was so unfair? In her quest to discover the truth about God, she had ended up sleeping with Noah Puckerman. It was certainly more complicated and less direct than that, but essentially that was what had happened.

In short, her last existential crisis got her pregnant. It was as if God had been taunting her question of faith, and wanted her to be very aware that He _was _watching. And despite the reassurances of her friends, Quinn can't help but wonder if maybe this apocalyptic horror is her fault as well. After all, God's warning with the baby hadn't been enough for her to come clean and stop lying to the people she loves. Maybe God has finally gotten sick of her spoiled, childish ways and has decided to punish her in a manner she can't ignore.

But to punish everyone else as well? Is that the God she loves? Is that the God that her parents taught her to grow up respecting and fearing and obeying?

She sinks her head into her hands and wonders why everything has to be so complicated. Things should be easy for her. Things should be _simple_. There are millions of people who _don't _believe in God and who do sinful things every day without having to pay for it. Why is she being punished for _one _sin? _One_ mistake?

It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense, but in her mind it's the only thing that can be real. If she loses her faith in God, in His ability to fix all of this, then she loses her mind.

And she will not fall. She will be strong, and she will do whatever she can to help deliver she and her friends from this Hell.

She just has to.

* * *

Will is becoming increasingly sure that this faculty-sponsored field trip to Target was a horrible idea. Puck of course insists on driving because it's his father's truck, which leaves Will feeling helpless and terrified out of his mind in the passenger seat as the boy careens down the street, going out of his way to hit every zombie on the road. Fortunately for Will's stomach, there aren't _too_ many about. For the most part it's just panicked people driving as fast as they can to the outskirts of town.

"Why don't _we _leave Lima?" Rachel asks curiously from where she's seated between her teacher and ex-boyfriend. Puck scoffs, his superior attitude less grating than it was before the world got figuratively turned on its end. The fact that he basically _is _superior takes away most of the bite.

"We've been over this, Rachel. Everywhere else is fucked just as much as we're fucked. Zombies don't just stay in one town, and if they _were_ goingto stay in one town, it wouldn't be Lima. Trust me, we're better off fortifying a defendable position than we are running blindly for a safe haven that doesn't exist."

Will doesn't say it aloud, but he internally laments that this younger generation is so consumed by video games and wartime pop culture that the biggest words in the boy's vocabulary have to do with defensive tactics, while he meanwhile can't hold down a job at a fast food restaurant because, to quote an earlier conversation, "there are too many buttons on the stupid register, Mr. Schue".

Rachel falls petulantly silent, thrust back into her thoughts once more. The truck approaches a group of zombies that are gathered in a circle by the side of the road, and it takes a moment for Will to realize that they're eating someone. A human being, still struggling and screaming a scream that can't be heard over the sound of the engine.

"Stop the truck!" he shouts. Puck reacts immediately, slamming on the breaks with a panicked expression flashing across his face, then glares over Rachel's head at Will after he's recovered from the momentary whiplash.

"What the fuck was that for? I almost had a fucking heart attack."

Will doesn't bother to chastise Puck for his language, because it's beyond useless at this point. Instead, he lifts a trembling finger into the air and gestures to the huddled zombies. Puck shakes his head and swears again under his breath.

"Oh, that poor man," Rachel breathes. "Do you think there's anything we can do to help him?"

"I'm pretty sure that dead granny has one of his vital organs hanging from her dentures, so I'm gonna say probably not."

Will looks at Puck, surprised at the indifference in the younger boy's tone. Puck has always been a problem for the school. It's pretty widely accepted among the faculty that he was the one who started the slushie-throwing craze that had Rachel walking around with squelching saddle shoes for four out of five days of the week, and it's rare to find a teacher who can put up with the boy for a whole semester without throwing some sort of tantrum in front of the whole class due to one of his infamous pranks. Emma is even afraid to talk to him, and she's a good guidance counselor despite her undeniable issues. She deals with all sorts of messed up kids, but any suggestion of talking to Noah Puckerman has her going green in the face.

But still, in the face of such raw human suffering, Will is honestly surprised that Puck can sound so calm and so cruel.

"Oh, Noah," Rachel sighs, oblivious to the tone. "I just wish there was something we could do."

Now it just seems crueler than driving by; stopping. Because now they're watching a man being torn to pieces in front of them, and there's nothing they can do. Will feels his eyes welling with tears, and he pulls his gaze away.

"We shouldn't have stopped," he practically whispers, and the presence of Rachel's warm fingers tightening on his own makes his heart clench painfully. He could jerk his hand away and quote some rule from the handbook about student-teacher conduct, but the world's gone to hell and right now he just needs someone to hold his hand. He needs some kind of human contact to convince himself that he's not the only person left who still _cares_ about people other than himself.

"We need to wait," Puck says. He is fixated on the dying man, his eyes narrowed with intense concentration and focus. Will is honestly too shocked to say anything. He just keeps his eyes on the door handle on his side of the cab, trying to force the rising mental images to the back of his mind again. Rachel pulls her hand from his gasp, and he glances over at her. She's kneeling between he and Puck, one hand on Puck's shoulder to steady herself as she leans as close to the window as she possibly can. She and Puck are staring at the dying man, murmuring under their breaths to each other so quietly that Will can't decipher anything that sounds remotely like human speech even though he's mere inches away. Finally, they both lean back, apparently satisfied, and Will looks past them to see what they're looking at.

The crowd of zombies has dispersed and the shuffling, stumbling figures are wandering across the street towards them at a deceptively leisurely pace, but that's not what Rachel and Puck are watching. They're watching the dying man rise staggeringly to his feet, and Will realizes suddenly that the dying man isn't dying anymore. He's dead. Without so much as a wince as his intestines coil out to the ground with a splatter that isn't audible from inside the truck but which Will hears very clearly in his own mind, the dead man joins the ranks of the men and women who killed him.

"Please," Rachel says quietly to Puck, still with her hand on his shoulder. "Let's go."

Puck nods and lifts his foot from the brake, speeding off down the street and hitting a zombie on the way.

"Now we know," he says as he flicks on the windshield wipers.

"Know what?" Will asks, his voice heavy with tears and fear and nausea.

"We know it's the bites that do it. We know that if you're bitten, you turn into one of them."

Rachel sighs with exasperation.

"We _don't_ know that. He could have died from his injuries, not from the bite itself. Maybe anyone who dies at all, maybe _they _turn into zombies, whether or not they are bitten."

Puck shakes his head, grinning a little.

"No, that's the thing. Remember that guy we saw on the way in, the one who shot that other guy who clearly wasn't a zombie?"

Rachel swallows audibly and nods, looking disturbed.

"Yes, of course."

"I spotted his body on the way back out. He was still dead. The zombies hadn't even touched him, and he was dead. It's something in the bites. Maybe it's a blood infection or some shit."

"I thought we weren't supposed to think about the big picture."

"Well, fuck. Yeah, Rach, we're not supposed to think about the big picture as a _group_, cus that gets people freaked out. But I kind of want to know what's going on, don't you?"

"A little."

"I mean, I'm not saying we let a zombie bite somebody so we can figure out how long it takes for them to turn, but if someone gets bitten…"

"Oh, Noah!" Rachel exclaims, sounding equal parts disgusted and terrified. "Let's not talk about that. We're going to get supplies, we're going to hide in the school, and we're going to be fine."

"I'm just saying _if_," Puck protests, but Rachel glares at him until he turns his eyes back to the road and slumps his shoulders with defeat.

"And _I'm _just saying that we don't need to talk about it. Not yet," Rachel says softly. "I know you're trying to help, but if you say something like that in front of the others, they're going to use _you _as bait. Positivity is what we should be selling right now, even if neither of us is particularly optimistic."

"Fine. Yeah. Okay. I see what you're saying."

He drives onward with a steely expression, but Will can tell that he's thinking. He's always thinking. Because Puck may be just a seventeen year old boy with a superiority complex bigger than most dictators, but he's _smart_. Maybe he can't speak a work of Spanish and maybe he still struggles to remember the capitol of Ohio, but at least when it comes to this, he's smart. And that's what they need right now. Because Puck is willing to do whatever it takes to stay alive, Will knows. If that includes watching a man die, so be it. Because the time for adhering to the conventions of society are over. The time for politeness and decorum and all those other American etiquette traits is over. What's going on now is quickly evolving into total anarchy, and Will has just realized that Puck was the first to realize it.

* * *

Emma stands quietly beside Sue Sylvester, straightening the yellow rubber gloves that cover most of her arms. Her skirt, which is still stained a pinkish color from the (mostly) washed off blood, is now also covered with dry crumbles of mortar. She has been trying not to think about it.

"I think we did an excellent job in this room, kids," she says to the students gathered in front of her. "Possibly the best one yet!" They're all tired, wiping their sweaty brows with the backs of their hands and eyeing her like she's a piece of meat and they're hungry little lion cubs. Or zombie children. Whether they are hungry for morsels of encouragement, or the promise of rest, she doesn't know.

"Are you kidding me? That was the shoddiest bricklaying I've ever seen. If these walls hold up, it'll only be because the zombies will be laughing too hard to try and get through!"

Emma sighs and lightly remarks, "I see you've found a way to transfer your naturally negative demeanor from cheerleading into bricklaying. How impressive."

"Your little passive aggressive comments didn't faze me when you were my biggest annoyance, Polly Pocket. Do you _really _think they're going to start now that there's a _real _enemy?"

"I just think that you should treat the kids with a little more respect. After all, they're young and they're not used to this kind of labor. I don't think it's fair to expect them to…"

"Fair? You think this is _unfair_? Let me tell you what's _unfair_, you germicidal maniac. What's unfairis that I'm stuck with you small town yokels instead of fighting the good fight with my Marine brothers, making a _real _difference like I should be. If I wasn't so hell-bent on bringing my Cheerios to nationals again, I would have been out of here as soon as I saw the first signs that the world was going to hell. But instead, I'm here, thinking than I'm protecting my best assets. And then I find out they're both whiny and useless outside of the world of handsprings and pom-poms. The disappointment I'm feeling as a result of you all right now? _That's _unfair."

She strides out of the room, shouldering Kurt roughly on the way, flicks off the lights for good measure, and slams the door behind her. The room is submerged into darkness, with only a few pinpricks of light shining through between some of the bricks. Emma sighs and turns the lights back on. The children are all looking at her expectantly, and she ignores the panicky feeling that she always gets whenever she is put center stage.

"Don't listen to Sue," she says levelly. "She's just worried, like the rest of us, and lashing out with hurtful words is her way of expressing that worry. You are all doing a _wonderful _job of keeping your heads during this crisis, and I admire all of you for your courage and for your bricklaying expertise. Now, let's return to the rehearsal room and maybe we can talk about this as a group. It's important to discuss how this makes us feel so we can come to terms with what we're dealing with."

"With all due respect," Mercedes says carefully. "That's bullshiit. There's no way we're going to just sit around at circle time while people are _dying_ out there. My parents are in a dentistry conference in Miami, and when I talked to her on the phone, my mom said that the same thing is going on down there. This is _big_, Miss P. This is really big."

"See? This is good! Thank you, Mercedes. Who else has something they want to say?"

Mike sighs and says, "I think what Mercedes is saying is that talking about this isn't going to make it go away. It's just going to waste time. We should be _doing _something. We're lucky. We were up before anyone even knew there _was _a crisis. Usually in zombie movies, people only know what's going on after a whole horde shows up and eats their family. We've got a head start. Shit went down when we were able to get someplace safe. We should be taking advantage of this, not sitting around and waiting for it to get worse."

A murmur of agreement washes through the kids, and Emma sighs. She knows that they're right; she certainly doesn't want to die because they wasted their time talking about their feelings. Still, it involves a good deal of improvisation, and that always makes her a little nervous.

"All right," she says as loudly as she can muster, which is just loudly enough for the gathered students to hear. "I want to see hands, and only speak when I call on you." She walks over to the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk. "Give me ideas. Now that the windows are bricked up, what else can we do to fortify the building?"

Kurt is the first to raise his hand. Emma nods and points to him.

"I've noticed a _serious _lack of weaponry that doesn't involve bullets. I'm sure our three Musketeers will hit up the WalMart gun selection for all it's worth, but we're going to need close-range weapons available anytime we need them. I think that Finn and Puck had the right idea when they settled for baseball bats, so we should raid the gym equipment for anything useful. Even stuff that might not seem like it would be good, like soccer balls or volleyballs. In a pinch, they can be used to trip the zombies. Like marbles in a _Three Stooges_ short."

"Okay!" Emma exclaims. "What an original and well-thought idea!"

Matt raises his hand next.

"Coach S. said that she has weapons buried under the gym floorboards. I think that we should get some seriously heavy machinery upstairs in some of the classrooms, that way we can shoot zombies out the windows before they get too close to the building. I'm sure she has a sniper rifle or two, and people can go on guard on something."

"Okay, that sounds like a very intelligent idea, Matt. The fewer zombies that get near the bricks, the better."

Tina was next with, "I think we should figure out what kind of food we have in the caf, and how much of it. And we should clear out the freezer and figure out how much food we can fit into it. That way when Mr. Schue gets back, we'll know exactly how much we can fit where."

"Thinking ahead is always smart," Emma agrees happily. She writes quickly, hardly even noticing that one of her gloves has torn and her fingers are being stained with the chalk.

Artie decides, "The nurse's office probably has bandages and stuff like that. We should head there and see how much. Then we can call Rachel and tell her what we need."

"That's good. Artie, Tina, why don't the two of you figure out a list of things that we might need that maybe Will and the others won't think of. Check the nurse's, the kitchen, the faculty lounge, the home economics room, places like that. Matt and Mike, I believe you should raid the gym equipment with Kurt. Santana and Brittany, maybe you could persuade Coach Sylvester to unearth her cache of weapons."

"What about us?" Mercedes asks, indicating herself, Jacob, Finn, and Quinn. "What are _we _supposed to do? Sit around and wait for everyone else to figure stuff out?"

"No. You're coming with me. We're going to comb through the desks of all the classrooms. We're going to see what people have stashed away. You never know when you're going to find something useful. Then we're going to retrieve the master keys from Principal Figgins' office, and we're going to open all of the lockers. I understand the invasion of privacy is regrettable, but…"

"Regrettable? I've been wanting to know what Barry Thompson keeps in that locker next to mine for a _long _time," Mercedes says, relishing the opportunity to snoop on her probably-dead classmate and the inarguably funky-smelling stuff he keeps locked away.

"Oh. Good. Well, if there are no ethical quandaries, then I suppose we should get started right away."

Quinn sighs but says nothing to indicate that she protests the idea. Emma smiles to herself. She handled that well, and what's even better, the students feel _useful_. That's more productive than any amount of group therapy, she has to admit.

* * *

Matt leads the way to the gym.

"Dude," Mike says as he looks at Kurt's blood-splattered outfit. "We're going to need new clothes and shit, aren't we?"

"That would be helpful," Kurt sneers, immediately regretting the harshness of his tone.

"Hey, look," Matt says with a heavy sigh. "I know that little comments and sarcasm are your _thing_, and that's cool normally, but dude. Come on."

"Yeah, man. It's a little mean. There are _zombies_."

"I apologize for not immediately forgiving people who used to turn tormenting me into an art form."

"Dude, you were completely _over _it a week ago," Matt exclaims.

"Yeah. I mean, it's stressful and scary, but that doesn't mean you should go all bitchy on us. We treated you like shit in the past, but we apologized for that."

Kurt sighs at the two of them. Cute, sure, but they're pretty short-sighted. As if one can just _get over_ being tossed into a dumpster every day for an entire school year.

"All right. I can see that you're earnestly trying, and although I have to say that it's probably not going to do much good to change my perception of either of you, I do appreciate it. So, sure, I guess I'm just stressed and taking it out on you since there are no zombies around to kill at the moment."

"Hey, I'd rather be bitched at than bit at," Matt admits.

"Yeah, it's cool. But Artie was right, man. We're in this together. We're a _team_."

"We've always been a team, and that doesn't stop me from making bitchy comments about any of them," Kurt points out somewhat sarcastically. It's not meant to be taken seriously, as many of his comments often aren't, but Matt responds with some fervor.

"What, is this about what Artie said? Dude, chill out. He dissed _all _of you."

"He didn't talk about either of you, I notice. Or the cheerios."

"Yeah, but that's a diss in itself, isn't it?" Matt asks. "He didn't even _mention_ us. Like we're not part of the team."

"Also maybe because we weren't bitching about Rachel and Puck, but I think it's true that you guys sort of tend to forget that we're there. Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but you're sort of self-centered sometimes. All of you. Not just _you_, but the other guys, too. You're like a little bubble of friendship and sometimes we're included and sometimes we're not. It sort of sucks to be us."

Kurt looks at Mike with surprise.

"You really feel left out, don't you?" he asks. For a moment his natural reaction is to be condescending, but he pushes that down. His defense mechanisms may have helped him get through almost everything that high school has so-far thrown his way, but they're not going to work now. Artie was right. He lashes out at people he feels threatened by, or feels belittled by. And that somehow transferred into lashing out at _everybody_ so that no one can betray him and hurt him anymore. Even people who never hurt him in the first place.

There is no place for that anymore. Even if Matt and Mike have done enough damage in the past to be worthy of his scorn, he has to learn to make amends. After all, there are zombies.

Instead of responding caustically, he says, "I'm sorry," and means it. And from the smiles that burst across the faces of his two oft-forgotten teammates, he imagines that his words mean more to them than he ever could have thought.

* * *

Tina and Artie make their way through the silent cafeteria, each of them noting the eerie silence but feeling reluctant to bring it up to one another. Tina's fingers are curled tightly around the handles of Artie's wheelchair while Artie balances a pistol in his lap, ready to shoot at whatever might threaten him.

He thinks back to the Halloween party, when he and Tina got dressed up as Helo and Athena – which was the most awesome costume _ever. _He remembers thinking that Helo and Athena had it lucky, because they didn't have to try and figure out their relationship during high school when everything was so messed up. He remembers thinking that he would gladly take an invasion of evil robots over high school politics any day.

And, okay, so zombies aren't robots, but they're close enough. And he vehemently wants to retract his earlier wish.

"What if there's a zombie in the freezer?" Tina says with barely-detectable delight. It's easier to pretend that the whole thing is like a movie or a video game, Artie realizes, and he's sure that Tina is thinking the same thing. In a movie, a zombie hidden in the freezer would be comical. In a video game, it would be hilarious. But in real life, Artie figures he'd probably wet himself.

"I'll shoot it," he says. "With my gun."

Tina laughs at the nervousness in his voice, although it's a shaky laugh that tells Artie that she's scared too. It would be hard not to be, in this silence.

"Maybe we could mow then down with your wheelchair," she says, her attempt at lightheartedness painfully transparent.

"Yeah, or hit them with frying pans."

"Or trashcan covers!"

"We could stuff them into lockers!"

Soon enough, they both forget that they're trying to make each other feel better. They just _feel better_. And whether it's the jokes or the company, neither of them know. It doesn't matter.

But neither can hide their smiles.

* * *

Rachel has her first _real _close brush with death in the doorway to Target, when a zombie lurches out from around the corner so fast that she doesn't have a chance to react before it's on her. Fortunately, her natural instinct is to shove it away, and its teeth sail harmlessly over her shoulder as she pushes with all her might. The undead man stumbles back, a look of vacant confusion on its face, and Puck fires a round into the center of his skull.

"Holy shit," he breathes once the zombie thuds to the ground and he's able to regain control of his motor functions. "Are you okay? Did he get you?"

Rachel shakes her head wordlessly, folding her arms across her chest and staring down at the dead thing near her feet.

"I apologize," she says with a toss of the head, her momentary lapse into shock done away with as simply as if it were stage fright or forgetting a line in a song. "I should have been prepared for that."

People run screaming out of the building in front of them and Puck sighs.

"Great. Target's got a giant roach problem. What do you think? Should we just go to Wal-Mart instead?"

Rachel grins, and she looks at her two male companions in a way that is almost predatory in nature. Mr. Schue suppresses a shiver of discomfort. Puck suppresses one of surprise lust.

"Why would we give up the opportunity to rid the earth of a few more of these creatures?" she asks innocently. "Especially in an environment when so many secondary weapons are available for our use?"

"I don't know if you're _trying_ to sound sexy, but if you are, it's totally working," Puck says, grinning from ear to ear. Mr. Schue rolls his eyes.

"That's _more _than enough," he says, trying to sound firm despite his internal fear. "But you have a point, Rachel. We're going to have to learn to take care of ourselves. What better time to start than right now?"

"That's the spirit, Schue!" Puck says good-naturedly, whipping his baseball bat from behind his back. A few still-breathing stragglers flee the building, dragging shopping carts filled with electronics and TV dinners.

"They're in there," says one woman who stops, evidently feeling it's her duty as a Good Samaritan to warn the newcomers of the danger. Her companions yell irritably from where they're already loading up the car.

"Yeah, lady," Puck says. "We know."

He and Mr. Schuester head through the double automatic doors. Rachel stays behind long enough to say, "Thank you, though, for telling us!" before hurrying after them.

She has a feeling that Puck's "no man gets left behind" policy is rather lax, and probably translates into something like, "I'd prefer if you didn't get left behind, but if you slow me down, you're on your own".

"We should get some DVDs or something," Puck says decisively as they stand together on the pure white linoleum at the front entrance. "I mean, shit, can you imagine being stuck sitting around with nothing to do? We should get, like, awesome TV shows and shit. I don't know."

"Well, you're certainly thinking out of the box," Mr. Schue murmurs as another pair of survivors screams past. From somewhere in the store, an animalistic howl of frustration echoes through the air. Puck grins and tightens his grip on his baseball bat.

"I think more important in this endeavor should be our search for blankets, clothing, hygiene products, and _food_. I cannot stress the importance of food. There are a number of adolescent boys waiting back at that school, all eleven feet of Finn Hudson included, and I don't think I need to inform _either _of you that our food supply will need to be near-infinite if we're to survive the first few days!"

Puck looks at Rachel, unsure if he should be offended or not.

"You have a valid point," Mr. Schue decides, thinking back to his own adolescent days and his insatiable need to eat any food within sight, no matter how full he felt. "Okay, we're going to need to move fast. People are on the road, and I'm sure more than a few of them will have the idea to stock up here before they take off for greener pastures. The last thing we need is to get shot for a bag of Cheetos."

"I plan to be the one doing the shooting, Mr. Schue," Puck says with the attitude of someone who is very carefully trying to explain geometry to someone who he sincerely believes will _never _understand.

"Puck, you're not going to _shoot _anyone who isn't already dead. Is that clear?"

"Dude, I wasn't even in any of your classes when that shit _mattered_. I'm definitely not listening to you _now_."

"Mr. Schue, perhaps it would be better if you didn't talk to Noah in a tone that implied you have authority over him. It's rather grating for him, as he believes himself to be a superior specimen when it comes to the survival of the apocalypse."

"_Believe_ myself to be? Come on."

"Okay fine, you _are_ the superior specimen. Not that I mean any offense, Mr. Schuester. It's just…Noah's a good deal more prepared than you and, well, it's his field of expertise. And while that may have been something to be _concerned_ about only a few hours ago, things are different now. And now I think we must concede to him, at least when it comes to matters of survival."

Mr. Schue just sighs and nods.

And hopes to God that Puck doesn't shoot anyone.

* * *

"This is cool," Finn says as he rummages through Mr. Greene's desk, pulling out a few toys that must have been confiscated yesterday. Quinn doesn't think it's cool. Quinn thinks it's sad. Whoever had their plastic vomit snatched by Mr. Greene was probably looking forward to getting it back. Now they never will, because they're probably dead. And even if they _aren't _dead, they've probably got bigger fish to fry.

Then she realizes that she's actually holding and tenderly stroking _fake vomit_, so she quickly drops it back into the drawer, forcing herself not to care about these people who she probably didn't like, anyway. She doesn't like many people, especially not _high school_ people, so odds are she didn't like the asshole who thought that spending fifteen bucks on a piece of plastic painted to look like throw-up was a "good buy".

"Did Mr. Greene keep _anything _in here except toys? It's like a pedophile's garden shed," she says dryly, forcing down _another _bout of tears that want to spring forth from her eyes. She's starting to get _seriously _annoyed with this baby and the pressure it's putting on her 'I don't care' attitude.

"Oh my God, is he really a pedophile?"

"No," Quinn sighs, not able to hold back a smile at the sight of Finn's horrified expression. She knows it isn't exactly _noble_ that she likes the fact that Finn believes her every word, but she loves the way that it makes her feel. Like someone actually _trusts_ her judgment and thinks that she's smart enough to have valid information about stuff.

The fact that she usually _doesn't_ just makes her feel bad about herself, so she forces those feelings down.

"Come on," she says, tugging at Finn's hand and smiling at him gently. "Let's go check out Mrs. Allan's room. I'm sure she has some weird stuff in that drawer she always keeps locked."

"Oh, cool, do I get to break the drawer open?"

"Yes, you do," Quinn says seriously. "Think you can handle that?"

Finn smiles and hurries out of the room, which is all the answer that Quinn really needs.

* * *

Coach Sylvester stands with Brittany and Santana in the middle of the gym. Kurt, Mike, and Matt stand in front of her.

"I buried the suckers right under the school's logo. Wanted the irony."

"How did you _ever _manage to pull that off?" Matt wonders aloud.

"Never underestimate the benefits to being civil to maintenance workers. Even if their questionable odor occasionally makes you want to cover their faces with your vomit. Other Asian, why don't you go and get the axe I keep behind my filing cabinet. It'll make this a lot easier."

Mike stares at Sue with open-mouthed horror, but does as she says. There's no punishment worse than the punishment that comes when you ignore a direct order from Sue Sylvester, after all.

Once he's gone, Sue turns to the other two boys in front of her.

"What do you want us to do?" Kurt asks finally, his chin in the air to show that he's not afraid of her, no matter how scary the others might think she is.

"I heard the ginger germ freak gave you all little assignments. Did you find _anything_ useful in that bacteria-infected hovel where Tanaka kept the gym equipment?"

Kurt nods gesturing to the pile of equipment that still sits next to the gym door.

"We found a cart full of kickballs, a lot of duct tape for some reason, rope, baseball bats, bottles of water and Gatorade, and a lot of sweaty clothes."

"All right, tape and rope is always useful, and I'm not going to say no to water, but what could we possibly use kickballs for?"

"I thought maybe if the zombies somehow got in, we could use the kickballs like marbles on the floor. Lay them out so that the zombies would trip. They don't seem exactly able to figure out what's a good idea to step on and what isn't."

Sue has to admit the truth in that. On her way in to school, she saw one zombie repeatedly trying to walk _through_ a garden wall in front of it, rather than attempting to get _around_ at its terrified prey. Of course, the woman behind the wall ended up getting eaten when she wrongfully assumed Sue would actually _stop _to pick her up in the midst of the chaos. If she had just stayed behind that wall, she would have been fine. But no, she had to run out screaming with her arms waving around in the air like a homing beacon.

Like that _isn't_ the best way to get the attention of zombies. Idiot.

"Not a _truly _horrible suggestion. Right. I already spoke to Asian and Wheels on their way to the nurse's office. Despite being disgustingly cheery and disrespectful to our situation, they had some excellent finds and suggestions. You wouldn't believe how much meat is in those freezers."

Kurt smiles uncertainly and tries to look remotely interested.

"Aren't we supposed to be doing something?" Brittany asks Santana quietly, the sound echoing in the empty gym.

"Yeah, we're _doing _it," Santana sighs.

"All right, you two are done disappointing me for the day. Go see what your mentally challenged ringleader wants you to do now." Santana and Brittany slink off without a word of protest. They're well used to Sue's behavior, and they know that her favor is fickle. Once she realizes that they're her best options for right hand women, she'll demand them back like nothing ever happened. Until then, they're glad to take a break.

"Is there anything you still need me for?" Kurt asks, hoping that he can escape and find Mercedes before he gets roped into doing something else to help Coach Sylvester – a woman he has always equal parts feared and despised.

"Yes. Come stand on my right. For lack of a better option, you're my new Quinn. That all right with you, or would you and your designer waste of fabric rather go cry in a closet about how much your life hurts because you're 'different'?"

Kurt sighs and reluctantly moves to stand beside the fiery coach. And this is really the first time that he wonders when his life is going to stop mirroring Quinn Fabray's in the _most _unfair ways.

* * *

Puck thinks that he's probably never going to be able to get the image out of his head of Rachel gleefully pushing along a shopping cart which is filled to the brim with plastic-wrapped bundles of down comforters, fuzzy pillows, and Snuggies. Over her shoulder, she has slung a tote bag in which she has been collecting items that she personally wants; a pair of thick boots, an absurd number of knee socks, scarves, and a few items of clothing that she insists are vital to her survival. It wouldn't normally be the out-of-body experience that it's turning into, but she's also carrying a pistol and shooting the occasional zombie without breaking her stride, so it's pretty fucking weird.

Mr. Schue is carrying a big tub of antibacterial soap while pulling along the cart full of food, and Puck almost makes fun of him for being whipped, but doesn't.

Puck is pushing all the other stuff they think they might need, like hygiene products and towels and one-size-fits-all windbreakers. Puck convinces Rachel to shove an X-box under her carriage, and he grabs a Wii, plus a few dozen games for each.

"Can you imagine if this situation was soon rectified?" Rachel asks a few seconds after shooting a zombie in the head with a pistol, after it emerged from the children's toy aisle to see what the commotion was. "Can you imagine if the army reclaimed this area, and all this preparation would have been for nothing? Although I find it hard to believe that we would actually be persecuted for these less-than-legal acquisitions, it would still be rather funny."

"The army isn't going to do shit," Puck says.

"Probably not, but I'm just thinking," Rachel sighs. She and Puck stop at the DVD section, which Mr. Schue protests with a loud sigh.

"Come on, guys," he says. "Is this _really_ important?"

"I'd argue that a morale boost could _certainly_ be vital to our survival," Rachel says tentatively. Puck nods.

"Yeah. What she said," he decides, grabbing a few DVDS off the shelf at random.

"You realize that you just grabbed _Best of the Golden Girls_, right?" Rachel asks, stifling a giggle. Puck takes the box set from the carriage and shoves it back on the shelf.

"I think we should make sure to grab a healthy variety of programs. After all, I don't assume to know what each of our comrades in arms finds pleasurable to watch."

"You're putting way more thought into this than you put into anything else so far," Mr. Schue points out, but Rachel and Puck ignore him, going back to picking out the TV show selections. "At least pick out something _good_, please."

The two students grin over their shoulders at his pitiful plea.

"That depends on your definition of good," Puck says, arching one eyebrow. "Does good mean, like, hot chick action show?" He holds up _Dollhouse_ and tosses it into the carriage. "Or does good mean hilarious comedy?" He dumps several seasons of _Family Guy_ along with it.

"I said _mix_, not testosterone-fest," Rachel points out, adding a few other shows on top. "We should try to cover all genres at least once."

"Whatever," Puck says. "They can suck my dick if they complain about my show choices. They're lucky we're bringing them back _anything_."

"We should really get back," Mr. Schue says. "Or at least get on the road. We don't want to leave them alone for too long."

Puck has to agree. Because if there's one thing the rest of the kids need more than quality television and a year's supply of soap, it's his badass self to protect them.

"You're right," he says with just a hint of self-sacrifice. "Duty calls."

And despite Rachel's protests, he wheels his carriage towards the door with his chin held high.


	6. Frankly, Quinn Doesn't Give A Damn

I don't know why I keep losing track of how many days have gone by with my updates, but I apologize heartily.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I love and treasure all your feedback.

* * *

Chapter 6: Frankly, Quinn Doesn't Give A Damn (But Puck Might)

Tina had known all along that it was only going to be a matter of time before they all started to lose their minds with the worry and the fear, but she had hoped it would be a little later than _this_. After all, if this had been a normal day, they would just be winding down from first period. Tina would be meeting Artie outside chemistry so she could push him to math, and they would pass Quinn in the hall who would pretend not to know them, and then they would hide in Mr. Miller's room until Rachel passed by and _then_ they'd head for second period. If this was a normal day, it would seem like it was just the beginning. There were far more people to feel belittled by, to avoid, and to gossip about before the day would finally be over. Except now it feels like they've been here _forever, _and it's already starting to show on their frazzled psyches.

It's only been a few hours since they all woke up and realized that the beautiful weather was hiding something much, much scarier than a storm on the horizen, and they've been a relatively easy first few hours (if she was to compare _their _hours to the hours of people like Tina's parents, whose mangled and zombified corpses did _not _scream 'easy death'). It shouldn't already feel this insurmountable. Yes, most of their parents are dead and _yes_, that's obviously horrible, but they are surrounded by people to help them out, and they found themselves a safe place to hide until…

Until what? _Is _there an 'until'? Or does it just keep going? Endless waiting for something to happen, _anything_ to happen? Maybe _that's _why they're all losing it. Or maybe they're all losing it because _The Hills_ is now on an indefinite hiatus. It's hard to tell, because when they're not acting like complete crazy people, they're suppressing their emotions entirely.

Upstairs, she hears a door slam. That would be Artie, making the rounds, going from room to room and peering out the windows to make sure that no one's approaching, even though it's technically Matt and Mike's turn for lookout. She tried to get him to focus on something else, but he kept insisting that he had "eagle vision" despite needing glasses, so he didn't trust Matt and Mike to spot the stuff that he would be able to. The other guys are too nice to say anything, so they're probably still upstairs watching him roll back and forth while internally reminding themselves not to let the crazy crippled kid near a gun.

Finn, meanwhile, is sitting near the front door with his gun in his lap and a baleful gaze turned towards the driveway. He's been there ever since Emma declared their work done for the time being, just sitting and waiting for any sign of Rachel or Puck. Tina's honestly not sure anymore who Finn cares about more. Before today, she would have said Rachel, easily. But now she's starting to see that Finn hero-worships Puck despite the fact that Puck's an ass, and it's kind of a scary revelation. Finn is supposed to be their Natural Born Leader. He's not supposed to defer to anyone, especially not the kid who used to lock Artie in portable toilets, throw Kurt into dumpsters, and turned slushying Rachel into a delicate art. Tina has to admit that when it comes to badassery, Puck is definitely the victor, but it's still a bad sign. The kids need a leader now more than ever, and if that leader is the Mohawk-sporting terror who used to make them all beg for mercy, there's a bigger problem than zombies.

Okay, maybe not _bigger_.

She peers into one of the rooms as she passes by, making sure that the noise she heard was _really_ just in her imagination and it isn't a horde of zombies breaking through a weak spot in their admittedly-shoddy brick wall. Of course, she's being as crazy as Artie and she knows it, but she's willing to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that keeps trying to tell her. Is there _really_ any such thing as _too_ prepared when zombies are involved? Isn't she past the point of caring about what people would think of her if they knew?

Sadly, no. She knows that it's going to take a lot more than zombies for people to change their ways.

Only, maybe not, because when she passes the rehearsal room, she sees Quinn and Kurt holding hands and sitting side-by-side, their eyes downcast and their lips moving as they murmur quietly to each other. Tina is friendly enough with Kurt to know that he has a very detailed and diabolical plan to get rid of Quinn so he can take over the role of Comfort Blanket for Finn's broken heart. Of course, that method doesn't involve actually killing her via zombie, but it's still weird to see them so close.

She glances down the back hallway to make sure that no zombies are trying to get in through the door they blocked with desks and chairs and stuff they got from woodshop, and she sees that Santana and Brittany are sitting on the ground, leaning their backs against the lockers. The two girls are easily chatting like they're trying to figure out where to go look for a semi-formal dress after school instead of how to survive the impending apocalypse. Tina knows that Brittany's intelligence level is pretty questionable, but she's been unbelievably brave so far. Whether that's because of a genuine courage or because she hasn't seen any zombie movies remains to be seen, but Tina's still pretty impressed with the both of them. As if they could _be _anymore perfect than they already were, they had to go and add superhuman courage into the mix.

Tina remembers the way they used to tease her for her self-inflicted invisibility and her faked stutter. They used to call her names that were borderline racist (or, in Santana's case, completely, semi-unintentionally racist) and even after they joined glee they would stutter her name and pretend that it was just a mistake when Mr. Schue would passively tell them to knock it off. It's kind of funny how the club was so quick to accept these people who were so mean to them, and just because they look good in the glee costumes and get them the attention they need to impress the judges. Plus, the back handsprings don't hurt.

Tina leaves the two girls and heads back down the front hallway, past Kurt and Quinn, past Finn still staring motionless like a statue, past the janitor's closet where she can hear Sue upbraiding Jacob for being disgusting. She walks up to Emma's office and leans in the door, smiling tentatively at their temporary leader.

Emma tears a sheet of paper out of her pink-papered spiral notebook and smiles up at Tina with the exact kind of manic happiness that Tina was afraid of.

"What's going on?" Tina asks, swallowing the urge to stutter like she always has to lately when she's nervous.

"I'm making lists. Really, if you break down what we're going to need to do for the next ten or so years, the odds don't seem so bad anymore!"

Tina looks at the lists, written in tiny cramped handwriting and spread out across the desk in order of length of time that will have passed when each list becomes relevant. Tina catches sight of "Quinn's baby", "Flu Season", and "Cancer", each on a different list, before she stops reading.

"Do you really think we need this many?" she asks, and it doesn't escape her notice that she's using the same tone that Emma usually uses on kids who need serious help.

"Of course, Tina!" Emma exclaims. "We need to be prepared!"

Her grin is getting wide to the point where it's starting to look unnatural, so Tina leaves the room without another word. If she's going to keep her sanity, she's going to need to stay as far away from Emma as is humanly possible.

She hurries to check the classroom down the hall again, because this time she's _sure_ she hears something.

The room is empty, so she keeps walking, checking behind all the doors as she goes.

Just in case.

* * *

Finn pulls his eyes away from the driveway because they're starting to burn now that it's really getting sunny out. The light keeps reflecting off of the windows of the cars in the parking lot, and it's getting annoying. What's _really_ annoying, though, is the fact that Puck and Rachel and Will aren't back yet. They left almost an hour ago, and now he's getting _really_ anxious. He just wants them to be okay. He just wants them to be _alive_. He wants to be able to see them and be aware of where they are at all times.

People always think it's weird that he's friends with Puck because Puck is basically an asshole any time he's conscious. But Finn has always thought of it as natural, because he and Puck have been friends since forever. It was always one of those things that just came easily. They used to beat each other up in the sandbox, fighting over pails and shovels, and now they beat each other up over X-Box Live matches. Although Finn _does_ wonder how Puck became such a mean guy while _he _always tries his hardest to be nice. Puck always says that it's a "natural progression", like being a jerk means that he's more grown up or something, even though it doesn't mean that _at all_. Finn wonders when Puck's _really _going to grow up, but he'd never say that to his friend. Mostly because Puck would probably hit him, but also because he sort of likes Puck the way he is. Puck says things that make sense, even if they're mean. And he's a good friend, despite how he acts to other people.

Finn thinks it's sad that Puck is his only _real _friend in the world. He's the only person who doesn't expect a lot from Finn, because everyone else wants him to be this big hero and everything, but Puck just likes him the way he is. Puck doesn't care if Finn says stupid things, and sometimes he even says he understands why Finn says the things he does. Finn's not sure if that's true or he's just being nice, but it's still pretty cool because Puck never says things just to be nice to anyone except him, and he likes the idea that Puck is _his _best friend and no one else's.

As lame as that might be (and he's pretty sure it's _really _lame), Puck is the coolest person that Finn knows, most of the time. And if Puck's dead somewhere by the side of the road in the zombie apocalypse, Finn doesn't know what he'll do. He knows that everyone is always telling him that he's the leader, but he doesn't _want _to be the leader. He didn't _ask _to be the leader. He's only the leader because he can sing and sort of dance even though he's a little awkward at that, and what does singing have anything to do with the zombies? Sure, it would be awesome if they could be killed with a song-and-dance routine, or if they could be tamed with the healing power of song, but that's pretty unlikely. Actually, it's probably downright impossible even though Rachel will undoubtedly want to try it at least once.

He only realizes that he has been spacing out when he hears the truck making its way down the street nearby. He leaps to his feet, fumbling with his weapon and turning to yell at the seemingly-empty hallway. He doesn't know if anyone's around to hear him, but he hopes they are. He does fairly well under pressure most of the time, but 'fairly well' doesn't cut it when it's the lives of his friends on the line.

He turns to make sure that backup is coming, and is glad to see Santana and Brittany. They both have guns and look fully ready to use them, even though Brittany looks a little nervous. Finn wants to say that it's okay, that he's nervous too, but then he realizes that Mr. Schue probably wouldn't want him to admit that he's nervous. It's only okay to admit that you're nervous when you _don't_ have people depending on you.

The truck finally careens into view, half a corpse sliding off the hood as Puck jerks the wheel violently and spins the entire vehicle around in a half-circle just before the truck is about to crash into the doors. Quinn screams somewhere behind Finn, but Finn can't move. His brain registers the fact that he should probably reassure her that it's okay, but he's too busy hoping that his heart doesn't stop.

Puck is laughing behind the wheel and giving Finn a thumbs up as he slams the gear to park the truck with characteristic roughness. Finn replays the last few moments in his mind, his harried brain replaying again and again the way that Puck accelerated and spun the wheel. If he had only been a few milliseconds too slow, the truck would have gone flying through the front doors, and they all would have been killed. At least, he and Santana and Brittany would have been, and maybe Rachel too, because Finn can see that Rachel isn't wearing a seatbelt because she's leaning out the driver's side window over Puck, using the bottom of the window to level her rifle as she fires a round into a zombie's skull. He really is glad that Puck is okay, and he's glad that he doesn't have to face the zombie apocalypse without him, but he still also kind of wants to punch Puck in his face.

"Go!" Santana yells, and small but strong hands push him forward. He stumbles on the steps, his feet getting tied up together like they sometimes do, but he quickly regains his footing (Rachel's dance lessons are mostly to thank), and jogs down the rest of the stairs. The truck is parked sideways, aligned with the front door, so he can't see anything unless he goes around. He takes the corner carefully, praying that there are no zombies close enough to get him when he does, and when he finally emerges from behind the bed of the truck, he's treated to the sight of a zombie flying backwards, propelled by the momentum of the shot fired from Puck's shotgun.

"Awesome," Puck says, winking in Finn's direction before setting his sights on another sprinting figure and blasting the weapon in his direction. "Ten points!"

"Ten points hardly seems adequate," Rachel quips as she shoots a zombie that's quite a bit further down the driveway than the others.

"You get twenty, because it was far away," Puck says, his tone daring Rachel to argue and placating her competitive spirit at the same time. She gives him a look that Finn recognizes; it's the 'we'll-be-talking-about-this-later' look. That means that she's going to plan out a points system, and she's fully going to expect people to take part in the competition, and she's fully going to expect to win. Finn smiles as he targets a zombie and shoots at it. He misses the first time, but gets it the second. The zombie careens to the side and bumps into the one that Rachel was aiming at, so her shot misses him completely but embeds itself into the eye socket of the woman behind him.

Puck whoops, Finn cheers, and Rachel blushes and insists that Finn is equally responsible.

His two best friends in the world are alive and all right, and together they're going to fight the zombies (Will can help, too, once he's done puking out his window and complaining about Puck's driving).

"Pay attention, Godzilla," Santana snaps as she shoots a man who is getting a little too close for comfort. "God, you're all such idiots."

* * *

Only a few zombies dared to follow them down the driveway this time. It's a little disappointing.

"Damn. How come we couldn't have an epic zombie attack like before? I didn't even get a chance to get my gun out last time before you stole all the good kills."

"The way you were driving, Noah, there are probably no more zombies left in Lima."

Puck rolls his eyes, but has to internally admit that she's probably right. His driving _was _pretty awesome.

Once Will manages to regain control of his stomach long enough to stagger inside, Rachel exits the truck through the passenger's side and hops down to the ground, ignoring the help that Finn is offering with his volunteered arm. Puck reminds himself to sit Finn down later and explain _why _Rachel is refusing all his little attempts to be a chivalrous guy. He needs to make himself very clear that this is a completely different Rachel than the one who would have melted for a pat on the head a few weeks ago. Puck doesn't want to take credit for it (except he does, a little), because he knows that Rachel is doing this all on her own, but he still has to hope that dating him jump-started the transformation.

Or maybe it was the zombies.

In any case, Rachel is a girl who is very determined to be her own woman, now. And Finn should already know that when Rachel decides to do something or be something, that _something_ is exactly what's going to happen. So if she wants to be a kickass zombie-killing feminist with no need for the old school knight in shining armor shit, then Puck is more than happy to sit back and let her do her thing. Plus, challenging her is only going to make her angry.

And, God, Puck does _not _want to see her when she's angry.

"Hey, man," he says in a consolatory tone to Finn when he sees his best friend's confused expression. "Held down the fort like a pro, right?"

"Huh?"

"Everything's okay here?"

"Oh, what? Yeah. Why's Rachel angry? What did you do?"

"Now you're just being a dick," Puck grumbles, but Finn doesn't appear to hear him. He's staring after Rachel like she's a question on his test and he's trying to remember if he studied.

Puck sighs and starts to walk after Rachel to help unload their loot, but then he spots Quinn standing with one hand splayed on her hip as it juts out to one side, the other hand clutching a sub-machine gun that is held casually pointing toward the floor. Her loose-fitting shirt is bunched around her baby bump at the top, so it draws even more attention to the fact that she's clearly carrying his kid, and for some reason it is _the _hottest thing that Puck has _ever _seen.

"That should _not_ be as sexy as it is," he says with a grin for the future mother of his baby, but Quinn is barely paying attention. She hears enough to send a withering glare in his direction, but her heart isn't in it. Her eyes are trained on Finn, like she's waiting for him to notice that she's watching him watch Rachel. The patheticness of this whole thing would be enough to get him to storm off if he wasn't so inescapably _part _of it all.

"Of _course_ you find it erotic, Noah," Rachel says, emerging from behind the truck with one of their giant bins filled with merchandise in her arms. "Quinn is normally the very picture of the pure, all-American, virginal young girl. Add pregnancy and it's already taboo, but the gun in her hand signifies a whole third dimension. And you, well, you're uncouth at your very best, so your attraction to Quinn given her status as a twice taboo figure is really quite understandable."

And now _everyone_ is paying attention to Rachel because while his calling Quinn hot barely blipped on the radar, _her_ roundabout way of doing the same thing has them all listening. And Quinn is even _smiling_, a little, although she looks like she doesn't want to. Then she banishes the smile from her face, and Puck can see that the defenses are up and running. Weapons hot.

"Whatever, manhands. He has a penis. I'd say not to read too much into it, but _clearly_ you already have. Do me a favor and _please_ stop sexualizing me. I'm a minor and, anyway, I don't _do _girls."

With the sneering, contemptuous glare that would have sent Rachel scampering to the nearest restroom before the pregnancy scandal took most of the bite from Quinn's bark, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and starts walking down the hallway. Puck watches her go, smirking a little even though he wishes he could call her out for being such a raging hormonal bitch during the _apocalypse_.

"Don't pay attention to her," Finn says to Rachel quickly.

"It's hard not to," Rachel replies, chewing on her bottom lip. "Why does everyone always misinterpret everything I say?"

"Maybe it's because you use big words."

"I think it's because you basically told Quinn she was hot," Puck puts in. Finn glares at him.

"I said that it was _understandable_ that you would find her gun-wielding attractive, given the pre-existing circumstances."

"Yeah, see, big words again," Finn says helplessly.

"Oh, Finn, how are you ever going to pass the SATs?" Rachel asks pityingly before she freezes, her eyes going wide with surprise.

"How does it feel knowing that all those hours you spent studying are going to be completely fucking wasted?" Puck asks, unable to keep from laughing at her expense and her horrified expression.

"I'll never even get to find out what I scored on the practice test!" she squeaks. "I was certain I would place in the top third percentile, but still I…"

She breaks off and abruptly punches Puck in the arm because he's still laughing. And even though Finn's laughing just as loud, she doesn't do anything to him. Puck pretends not to notice.

* * *

Quinn finds Kurt sitting beside Mercedes, who is holding her phone in one hand and clutching Kurt's delicate fingers in the other.

"They're back, and acting like a bunch of children," Quinn announces, flopping onto one of the mattresses with due fanfare. This is usually the kind of thing that she would talk to Santana and Brittany about, but ever since her pregnancy became public knowledge, she has found herself becoming less and less the center of their world. The more her waistline expands, the less likely they are to pick up their phones when she calls. Add in that whole not-so-secret relationship they're in, and the _zombie _thing, and Quinn has practically fallen out of their notice entirely. And it is _really _not okay. The other moments when she needed the support of her girls now seem so stupid. It's like she reached her quota just when the really bad stuff started happening.

She fingers the silver necklace around her neck and looks up at Mercedes and Kurt, finding that they aren't giving her the amount of attention that the conversation is due. If there's one person that Mercedes hates more than Rachel, it's Puck, so the combination should be enough to make her gossip for hours. Mercedes might be overbearingly opinionated about so many things that Quinn doesn't care about, but she's creative, and she's funny, and Quinn thinks it's not too unfair to say that everyone could use a good laugh right now. If that's a laugh at Rachel's expense, then so be it. She'll make it up to Rachel later by complimenting her, or something.

Then she realizes that their silence isn't due to disinterest, but instead due to a very marked interest in something else entirely.

"What's the matter?" she asks.

"My parents aren't answering the phone anymore," Mercedes whispers, dialing as she speaks and holding the phone to her ear with a trembling lower lip. Kurt wraps his arm around her shoulder and leans into her side heavily, the look on his face cold and impassive. Quinn recognizes the look as the same one that her mother used to put on every night at the dinner table as she nodded along with anything that Mr. Fabray had decided to go on about that night. Quinn never really thought about it before, but she thinks that look may have been a sort of sacrificial patience. The last thing that Kurt probably wants to do is help _another _person through the deaths of their parents, but he's doing it anyway. Because he's a good friend. Because he's a good person.

And Quinn? Deep in her heart, she doesn't care. She doesn't care that Mercedes' parents might be dead, she doesn't care that the world is ending, she doesn't care that the stupid baby growing inside her and ruining her last few days of life isn't going to have a future even if she doesn't die before she's born. Quinn doesn't care.

She doesn't know if Kurt caring is just an act, just something that he feels he _has _to do because he wants to retain that label of Good Person and Good Friend, but she hopes to God that it is. Is it possible for people to care so deeply about everyone that they can stop caring about themselves? Is it really possible to put aside ones' own worries, or is that just a fallacy? Is that just a construct, put there by the people like Quinn's parents who define morality and rightness and wrongness? If you care because God tells you to, is that _really_ caring? Or is that just working toward your own private goal of being accepted into Heaven? Because even if he isn't doing it consciously, it's still happening, right?

She puts her head in her hands and tries to breathe without puking, but inevitably her body's natural reaction to both pregnancy and fear proves too much to suppress. She leaps to her feet and sprints from the room, heading blindly for the bathroom. On the way, she collides with someone small and annoying who squeaks at her to watch out (damn her and her ability to get in Quinn's way no matter _what_, whether physical or metaphorical).

Quinn barely makes it to the toilet before she feels her stomach heaving emptily, and only a few drops of liquid spurt from her mouth. She's thrown up so much today that the half of a pop tart she ate before leaving Finn's house is just a distant memory in her stomach acid.

The thought of pop tarts has her face back in the toilet bowl, and she cries and tells herself that she's going to start caring about other people. She's going to force herself to start caring about other people, and maybe then the pain will stop. Maybe then the feelings of loneliness will stop. Maybe she can stop feeling like she caused the end of the world (because what single pregnant girl could cause such a big change, anyway?) Maybe she will finally find something in her life worth _actually _living for. Maybe she can stop playing pretend at everything she does.

But when she stands shakily on her feet, all she feels is hungry.

* * *

"I know this might be hard for you, William, because God only knows what those chemicals in your hair are doing to your already-inconsiderable IQ, but I need you to tell me absolutely _everything_ about the state of things out there."

"What? God, Sue, it's like two feet away. Go stick your head out the window and you'll see it."

"This is unacceptable. If we were with the SEALS right now..."

"Yeah, well we're not!"

Sue is visibly taken aback by Will's sudden fire, and Emma is pretty sure she's going to drop dead of a heart attack. Sue Sylvester surprised is almost always immediately followed by Sue Sylvester angry. And not even the normal surliness, but something much scarier. Since Will's wife just died, and since her own fiancé tried to eat her in the parking lot, Emma's really hoping for a chance to make this thing with him work, and she isn't ready to lose him to homicide just yet.

"Um, Sue, Will. Why don't we just take a step back and settle this like rational adults. In times when we feel overwhelmed by our feelings, it's best to just…"

Sue turns her face around to look in Emma's direction, and Emma is distinctly reminded of the time she and Ken rented _Jurassic Park_. There is definitely something raptor-like in Sue's expression. Possibly hunger, but possibly also just the spirit of killing for the joy of the hunt. Emma is sure that if the idea didn't appall her so much, she would wet herself. But Sue isn't content with just glaring scarily, of course. She needs to add insult to injury by actually _speaking_.

"If I hear another word out of you that in any way suggests I sing campfire songs and make daisy chains with this misogynistic, pansy-ass…"

Will jumps in with, "How does that even…?"

"…product-drenched piece of…"

"And what is with you and the…?"

"…shit, I swear to God I will…"

"Okay, seriously, will you both just shut the fuck up?"

Emma turns with surprise to see Puck and Finn standing in the doorway. She almost scolds them for not being in class before she realizes that it would be incredibly rude of her to turn them away from her office during the day, and also that they're not in school because most of their educators are probably out there dreaming of the taste and consistency of human flesh.

She supposes that it may take a little longer than a few hours to get used to that fact.

"Puckerman, I said I liked you for your ideas. I still think you're an oversexed delinquent who could do with a good beating. Raising your voice to me is not in your best interest."

"Neither is listening to the two of you act like fucking idiots! Look, no disrespect, Miss S…"

"Doubtful."

"…But there are some bigger things to worry about than your stupid dick-measuring contest."

"Alarmingly disrespectful, Puckerman!"

"Mr. Schue, you're always going on and on about how Finn is our leader or whatever, but the truth is that _you're _the one that these kids look at, you know? I mean, Finn's great, but he's not an adult, and he's kind of…uh, inexperienced when it comes to this whole zombie thing. And I know you're not exactly swimming in knowledge right now, either, but at least you're old. And Coach Sylvester, you're really intense and scary, but that's sort of what everyone needs right now. They're all scared as hell and they have no idea what they're supposed to be feeling. You need to get in there and tell them."

"What do you think I've been doing? There's nothing more pathetic than the gaggle of spineless fools out there in this building. The only one worth her weight in salt is that Berry girl, and she's the daughter of a homosexual couple, so who knows how long _that _is going to last."

"Wait a minute!" Finn shouts, lunging forward. Puck holds an arm out, keeping him in place.

"Hold up," he murmurs to Finn, then starts talking again. "Look, whatever shit you have going on that makes you hate each other, none of us understand, and we really don't care. Like, at all. So if you could just pretend for the sake of a morale boost that you actually get along and you're _actually _not batshit, then I think that would help. And maybe then we could start figuring out how we're actually going to survive this thing."

"Oh, I've made lists," Emma offers, but Puck shakes his head.

"Yeah, but I'm not talking about just _physically _surviving. We need more than just how-tos and don'ts. We need to think of how we're going to keep on _actually living_. I mean, it's zombies. It's pretty fucking bleak. You need to figure out a way to make it less bleak."

Emma watches the emotions that flicker across Will's face, and she can tell that he really doesn't _want _to be responsible for these people, but can't possibly think of a way out of it. After all, Puck is right. It's about more than just keeping the body alive. She should know. This (well not _this_, specifically, but in more general terms) is what she has trained for. This is what those Grief and Trauma Counseling classes she took at the community center were all about. She has to help Will make the kids see that there is still some reason to fight.

Although, she's not entirely sure how to go about doing that. So when Will looks to her for ideas, she pretends not to notice.

* * *

"_I _think that one way to keep our spirits up is to establish some form of competition involving the killing of zombies."

Rachel beams at the tattered assembly before her, but no one seems to be paying attention. Mercedes is calling her parents every fifteen seconds, Kurt is stony faced beside her, Quinn keeps leaving the room to go dry heave (almost always bumping into Rachel on her way out, which is completely on purpose and Rachel knows it, but she's not sure how to bring it up without everyone taking Quinn's side), Puck and Finn are having what they call a 'tactical meeting' in the hall and she's not invited because (as Puck put it) they can't hear themselves think when she throws out stupid ideas, Santana and Brittany are guarding the front doors, Matt is playing Tetris on his phone, Mike is watching Matt play Tetris on his phone, and Artie and Tina are pretending to listen but it's quite clear that they're really listening for the sounds of approaching zombies. And, of course, the three adults (who are _supposed_ to be the responsible ones although Rachel has never had the misfortune of being around such irresponsible people in her entire life) are bickering about something down the hallway that is just loud enough for it to be clear that the topic is, unsurprisingly, Will's hair.

Finally beginning to understand that no one's going to listen to her and she's going to have to take matters into her own hands, Rachel flounces out of the room with a much less dramatic exit than she would like, and she heads down the hall to the art room. Once she gets inside, she closes the door behind her and lets out a relieved sigh. She has always been someone who values the opportunity to be alone. After all, the social pressures exerted on a young girl such as herself (without factoring in the drive and determination that was one day going to make her a star before the collapse of civilization made that a moot point) are enormous. And despite the fact that she tries not to listen to those social pressures and she tries to do what she feels is right for _herself_, she more often than not finds herself bowing to the whims of her classmates in order to feel some degree of acceptance from them.

But not today. Today she's going to do what she wants, and she's going to do it because she _knows_ that it's the only way that she's going to be able to save her friends. Because they _are _her friends, whether or not they agree.

She takes the key from where it is taped on the underside of Mrs. Applebaum's desk, and she heads to the supply closet. Back before flesh-eating former humans became the number one problem in the country, Mrs. Applebaum had been very strict with the art materials due to the increasing budget cuts and decreased funding from the state. Rachel has to admit that she feels a small hint of pleasure at the thought of using all the materials that she was not allowed to use on her art projects before (namely, glitter. Sequins too).

She lays out a large piece of white poster board and regards it as carefully as a sculptor might regard a block of marble. Much like said sculptor, Rachel already has a vision of what she will be making with her not-inconsiderable artistry skills. She just needs to make it emerge.

She's so engrossed with her careful pencil tracing of the bubble letters of her own name (it wouldn't be incorrect to assume that the other names that will follow it will be done with far less care because, after all, none of them offered to help her try to make their stay at least somewhat bearable, so she's going to do it _her_ way) that she doesn't even notice the door to the art room opening. Nor does she notice the blonde, pregnant teenager standing in the doorway.

Finally, Quinn says, "Bubble letters? Are we five years ago?"

"Bubble letters imply whimsy, Quinn. I don't think you could possibly argue that whimsy would be a bad thing at this particular juncture."

"No, that's true," Quinn murmurs quietly, and Rachel looks up with surprise. She has become accustomed to their battle of wits. That's not to say that it's _enjoyable_ (because it isn't), but it is at the very least _routine_. Quinn dislikes her strongly because of her feelings for Finn, and Rachel returns the favor because of the same thing, and because of the torment that the other girl has inflicted on her ever since she became old enough to realize that biting words made good comedy to people who weren't the ones being hurt by the barbs. And while it's true that Quinn has become much more kind lately, she has been very clear that her kindness will not alter her attitudes about Rachel in the slightest. Even though Rachel has stopped actively trying to pursue Finn in any way, and even though she has several times been helpful about Quinn's pregnancy and her fights with Finn, Quinn has never shown any sign that she might be considering Rachel a less heinous offense to the human condition than she ever has.

But now, Quinn is looking at her like she has no other choice. Like she has nowhere else to turn. And Rachel thinks that it's both heartbreaking and oh, so vengefully sweet.

"What's wrong?" she asks, trying her hardest to conceal the smugness that is quickly rising even though she tries to fight it.

"What's wrong? Are you serious? Why don't we look out the…?"

"Quinn," Rachel sighs. "Just stop. You have no audience. You have no one to laugh at your jokes. Being rude to me without your lackeys has never been your style, which means that you're projecting, which means that you came here for a reason."

"Why would I possibly need to come here?"

"Of course, you could continue to be completely juvenile and pretend that you had no intentions of coming to speak with me, but…"

"Okay, fine, man hands. Are you happy? I saw you come in here and I figured I'd come see what you were doing. No one will talk to me. No one will even _look _at me. I had Finn, but then he met up with his stupid _boyfriend_, and now it's like I don't even exist because they're too busy acting like their _Modern Warfare_ experience has prepared them for this. And then I had Kurt, but then Mercedes needed him, so now trying to talk to him is like running into the woods and trying to take a baby bear away from its mother. And Brittany and Santana are _supposed_ to be my friends, but they're acting all weird and secretive and every time I try to talk to them, they act like they're so _superior _to me."

Rachel can't stifle a laugh in time, and she fully doesn't blame Quinn for glaring at her.

"I'm sorry, really. But Quinn, are you even listening to yourself? You've just described my daily routine at McKinley High. People tolerate me if they have nowhere else to go, but when someone better comes along, they forget that I was even there. And worse yet, they turn to actively hating me, because it seems to be the McKinley default for everyone but Jacob. What you're feeling is _loneliness_, coupled with the startling realization that you didn't know people as well as you thought you did."

Quinn looks like she wants to storm away, but she doesn't. She just sits down next to Rachel in one of the stools and stares at the bubble letters that Rachel has drawn.

"Okay, bubble letters are lame, but if this was still elementary school, I'd say that you did them really well."

Rachel smiles a little as she stares down at her handiwork.

"Lots of practice," she admits. "I put bubble letters on everything. I don't know why. I just love the way they look."

"If only we had gel pens, you could be twice as lame," Quinn says, but she's smiling a little.

"I have gel pens at my house."

"_No_!" Quinn exclaims, really laughing this time.

"I forced my dads to buy a completely unnecessary amount once everyone else stopped using them. All the stores were selling them for half price, so we got enough to last me into my forties. I wish I was joking."

"I don't. That's the greatest story I've ever heard."

"It's incredibly silly."

"If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll admit that I still buy beanie babies."

"_What_?"

"My sister had a huge collection when they were _really _cool, and she passed them down to me. They're all at her place, because my parents thought I was ridiculous for spending my allowance on stuffed toys. I bought one a few weeks ago on Ebay because I didn't own it yet."

Rachel isn't sure exactly _what _she's feeling, but she knows it's something akin to fondness. Of course she is aware that Quinn is only talking to her because no one else will, but she still feels a certain amount of peace with that knowledge. There's nothing she can do about it anyway. She may as well embrace it.

"I can't imagine you ever doing something so chilidish," she says, not unkindly. "My impression of you has always been that you try too hard to be adult, although I think that your successes are pretty variable."

"Well, adults generally don't…" Quinn starts, but then she falters and looks down at her stomach, fingers splayed across the protruding belly. She sighs and shakes her head. "Adults generally don't blame the apocalypse on themselves."

"I'm sure the scientist who created this atrocity is blaming himself. And if he isn't, he's an idiot."

"Do you really think it was science? What about if it was something else, something like the Great Flood, or the seven plagues. What if this is a punishment?"

"We may never know for sure, but for what it's worth, I think it was science. I don't think any God you could possibly believe in would make something this horrible come to life. I don't think that he could still be _God_, if he did that. He'd have to be a hypocrite."

Quinn smiles and says, "You're a lot easier to talk to when you're not trying to impress people with your SAT words."

"Well, you're a lot easier to talk to when you're not trying to impress people with your capacity for creating insults."

Quinn looks down at the table, staring at the bubble letters again as Rachel starts to outline them in purple marker.

"Can I ask you something?" she asks finally, looking sidelong at her former nemesis, almost unwilling to look her in the eye.

"Sure, of course. You can ask me anything."

Rachel is admittedly eager for Quinn to take her into her confidence. And even though Rachel would like to think better of herself, she's secretly hoping that Quinn reveals something so horrible that Finn will _have _to break up with her. She would, of course, like to be able to say that she would take Quinn's secrets to the grave because she's a good person, but she knows deep down that the only way to trust her willpower would be to have the opportunity. And odds are, that would not end well for Quinn.

"Do you _really _care what happens to me?"

"What?"

"Well, you obviously like Finn. A lot. You think he's, like, your _leading man_ or something else that sounds stupid. And I know that you've tried to get between us in the past, which I want to be angry about, but I can't, because it's not like I've given you reason to stop. Other than my spawn, anyway, which made you back off. And my question is, when you act like you care, and when you put together that stupid song for me and Finn, and when you do things like offer to make me cookies for the baby shower or whatever, do you actually care? Or is there some other reason that you're doing it?"

Rachel stops to think for a few moments. She doesn't believe that Quinn is baiting her. She doesn't have that smile on her face like she's trying to soothe her into letting her guard down just long enough to pounce on her and say something horrible. She seems like she wants an honest answer, so Rachel decides to give her one.

"No. I do it for selfish reasons. I'm a hypocrite. And I realize the irony of saying this to the pregnant celibacy club president, but I am. I'm a hypocrite. I advocate always being oneself and not being ashamed of who you feel you were _born _to be, but I'm constantly being someone other than myself, because being myself is lonely. Every time I do something selfless for someone else, like giving up a solo or keeping myself from mentioning your latest drawing of me on the bathroom stall to Finn, I feel like I'm betraying myself because it's not who I am. I'm determined and I become indignant at the slightest things and I have a finely tuned sense of justice. But I neuter myself because I know it's what people want."

Rachel avoids looking at Quinn through all of this, because she's ashamed. She's not sure why, because in her opinion, Quinn has _far _more to be ashamed about than she, but the feeling burns through her, hot and deadly. She remembers reading a Toni Morrison novel one summer that she found in her father's library, and in one chapter there was a girl who was thought of as perfect by everybody. As a result, she believed them. She thought herself perfect as well. Meanwhile the other girls, the girls with the dark skin who were belittled by their classmates, wondered what it was that made this girl better than the rest. And in turn, some of those girls began to resent themselves.

Rachel feels ashamed of what she's saying to Quinn, because everything in her life has taught her that Quinn Fabray is the model of excellence that everyone should aspire to. Not Audrey Hepburn or Judy Garland or Barbara Streisand, but Quinn Fabray. Her blonde hair, her perfect nose, her dainty mouth, and her moralistic view of the world which stresses family values and thinly-veiled contempt for anyone not perfect like her. And it's not as if Rachel is unaware of Quinn's faults (it's sometimes the only thing that can get her to sleep at night), but the overwhelming view of everyone around her is that Quinn is _perfect_, and to admit fault to such a perfect girl seems a little like giving up. Like she might as well stop trying because she will never be as perfect as Quinn.

But when she finally looks up, she sees that Quinn is crying. She isn't sobbing, or even sniffling, but the skin around her eyes is turning red, and her mouth is twisted into an odd formation as she looks at Rachel. She purses her lips together and shakes her head.

"I don't care," she admits. "About anything. I should. I should love people and accept people and…I don't. I see the way my parents act around each other after being married for twenty years, and all I can think is that I'm becoming _them_. I don't want to be them, but I was always so afraid of disappointing them, and it just sort of happened. I'm an expert liar. I'm so good at pretending that everything I do isn't just for attention."

"_I _saw through it."

"And I saw through you."

Rachel smiles sadly and says, "I guess we can recognize ourselves in each other. I hate to admit it, but we do have a few things in common. We want what we want, and we know what we have to do to get it. I've never been able to understand why that was wrong, but…now I think it's different. It's harder to reach for the stars when people all around you are dying, or scared of dying. It's harder to look at people and not think about what they've lost."

"Mercedes' parents are probably dead, and all I can think is that I really miss my mom, and I wish Kurt would talk to me like he talks to _her_. The way he talks all gentle and quiet. I want him to hold _my _hand and tell _me _that it will be okay."

"That's because you're scared to accept that things have changed. It's hardly something contemptible. It's _normal_. It's human."

Quinn abruptly jumps up from her seat and bolts to the door with her hand clasped over her mouth. Rachel looks down at the bubble letters and starts writing Quinn's name below her own. She thinks about Quinn and Finn and how she's _possibly_ going to be able to justify actively trying to break them up now that Quinn has more-or-less bared her soul to her. Of course, it hardly rectifies the awful things Quinn has said to her over the years, but it's a step. A step that she can't ignore because she so badly wants to be accepted.

This time, she hears the door creak open, and Quinn sheepishly sidles into the room and slides into the stool she just so hastily fled from. Without saying a word, she picks up the purple marker and starts coloring in Rachel's name.

Rachel smiles and refrains from telling her that she was actually thinking of coloring the inside of the letters yellow instead.

It seems they're both making strides in maturity today.

* * *

Artie is leaning his elbows on the window pane of the second floor social studies room, watching Matt and Mike as they back the cars up to the front of the school so that they can make a hasty exit if necessary. Behind him, Tina and Mercedes are going through the stuff that their marauding companions picked up from Target.

"I swear, Rachel's taste in hair care products is _seriously _whacked," Mercedes groans, picking up the bottle between her thumb and forefinger like it's a snake. "Or maybe Mr. Schue got this. Coach S. is always going on about how his product is gross or something."

"Yeah, but she's just being _herself_."

"I don't know, she has a point about his 'do."

Kurt leans against the doorway and replies, "He works with what he's got. You can't fault a man for naturally uncooperative hair. Or, you can, but I've been trying to be more generous about that."

He leans his shotgun against the wall and joins the three others in the room.

"How is everything down there?" Mercedes asks.

"Better. Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury are working on a motivating speech that I'm sure will inspire us all to continue being as mopey and depressed as we already are."

"Maybe _we're_ mopey and depressed, but you're not."

"Well, someone's got to be strong for the herd."

"_Everyone's_ being strong for the herd," Artie muttered. "Everyone's being all weird and silent and John Wayne-ish about their feelings."

"If it's any consolation, I passed Puck letting out his aggression by beating Jacob's face in."

Tina and Artie look at Kurt with their eyebrows raised. Mercedes rolls her eyes.

"Let me guess. Jacob looked too nerdy or something."

"Actually," Kurt says in a tone that calls to mind simpler times, when juicy gossip was the highlight of everyone's day. "He said something about Rachel's underwear. I guess Jacob had her panties in his locker or something. Something about a blackmail scheme. Finn was being all Finn-ish. God love him, but he was trying to persuade Puck with something about nobility and honor which, we all know, was going to work about as well as those stirrup pants Quinn tried to pull off last week. Puck said something about how we can't have the creep running around and sexually harassing all the chicks."

"Ew, no thanks," Tina says, shuddering.

"Yeah, gross," Artie agrees. He hates to admit that Kurt's gossip is cheering him up, but it is. It's something normal. Hearing that Puck beat up Jacob to defend Rachel's honor on a normal day would have had them all chatting eagerly until at least lunch period.

"Anyway, so Puck got all pissed at Finn and told him with some very colorful insults that Finn isn't man enough to stand up for the girl he's all moony about."

"Oh, snap," Artie says.

"I hope Quinn wasn't around to hear that," Mercedes says, although her tone implies that she definitely _does _hope that Quinn was around to hear that.

"No, nobody knows where Quinn is. Matt was looking for her earlier because she apparently ran by him in the hall, crying and looking like she was going to puke."

"Where'd she go?"

"Well, the bathroom. I think she was literally puking. But then Matt went to check on her later and she was gone."

"Maybe she heard what was going down!" Mercedes gasps.

"Wait, what happened to Jacob?"

"He slunk away to perch in the ceiling rafters in the auditorium so he can watch Rachel when she inevitably goes to practice, or something. I don't know. The important part was that Puck came to her rescue when Finn was too honorable to do so."

"I don't know, man," Artie says, sensing the opportunity to look like a good guy in front of Tina (he likes to take advantage of every possible opportunity to do so, that way he'll overwhelm her with his awesomeness to the point where she has no choice but to overcome her shyness and ask her out. Which wouldn't be necessary if he could only overcome _his _shyness and ask _her _out). "Finn's cool and Puck's generally a douche, but I think Puck rocked this one out."

"Yeah, that's so very dramatic and Rhett Butler of him," Tina says.

"Don't you _dare _bring Rhett Butler into this conversation and compare him with Noah Puckerman," Kurt snaps. "Rhett Butler would never throw a man into a dumpster."

"Oh, God, the parallels are insane!" Tina exclaims. "I've been thinking about it ever since your movie night, but this just drives it home. Rachel is the most Scarlett O'Hara-esque person I've ever met. And you can't even tell me that Finn isn't Ashley Wilkes, if Ashley Wilkes was a little manlier and a little less intelligent. Then that would make Quinn into Melanie Wilkes, which doesn't really work, but…maybe it's an ironic parallel. Like Melanie is so saintly and nice and good that it's funny?"

"Ashley Wilkes _wishes _he was so good as to be compared to Finn Hudson," Kurt says.

Artie finally says, "I have no idea what's going on." Mercedes just shakes her head.

"I _wish _I didn't know. Kurt made me watch _Gone with the Wind_ twice this month. _Twice_. That is the longest damn movie I've ever seen, and he made me watch it _twice_."

"You _adored_ it both times. You cannot possibly tell me that you didn't."

"Are you serious? We must have been watching completely different movies."

And that's when Artie realizes that he can't take anymore of this. There is no happy medium with them. Either they are completely morose and engrossed in their own world of sorrow and misery, or they are pretending so hard that nothing's happening that they go into this manic state where they act like everything is completely normal. He turns and looks out the window again, this time watching an airplane flying overhead, a cat crawling under the fence, and finally a lone zombie meandering down the driveway.

Artie takes his time in picking up the gun that's resting at his feet. He looks through the scope and realizes that the zombie is Karofsky; the leader of the puck-heads, captain of the hockey team. Ever since Puck stopped openly antagonizing the glee club, Karofsky had stepped up to take the plate.

And Artie really can't deny that when he pulls the trigger and sees the blood spurt and coat the pavement, it is probably the most cathartic and awesome feeling in the world.

He puts the gun to the ground and smiles.

"Get him?" Tina asks, and he realizes that they've all fallen silent, sober and sad-eyed now that they've been forcefully thrust back into the world of the surreal. Artie smiles and spins his chair around to face them.

"Yep," he says. "So, anyway, I thought _Gone with the Wind_ was the stupidest book I've ever read."

And this time he just smiles as the others begin to bombard him with their opinions.

Of course, that doesn't really mean he's actually listening. He just really likes the way that Tina looks when she's passionate about something. And he figures that if they're going to go down, then he's going to take as much advantage of these moments as he can.

Next on his list: working up the courage to ask Tina out.

Until then, he's willing to just sit back and take the abuse. Sometimes one just has to take one for the team.


	7. Another Battlestar Analog Stick

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! Please review again, it makes my day and constantly inspires new ideas.

* * *

Chapter 7: Another Battlestar Analog Stick (It Doesn't Mean What Finn Thinks It Means)

The first sign of true hope arrives for the adolescent survivalists when they hear a helicopter approaching. They all run outside, maneuvering between the cars that are parked close to the door, and try to get its attention by waving their arms and shouting, but it's too late. The pilot has no chance of seeing them; he's already flying over the center of town. But still, they take this as a good sign; there are people out there who are still in command. Helicopters mean military. The idea that it may belong to a news station or a hospital never crosses their minds. And of course they assume that the helicopter was scouting for survivors, so they set about organizing a way to get the attention of the next one that is going to inevitably fly over. And if any of them start to find a spark of doubt festering somewhere in their brain, Rachel's optimism scares it into surrendering.

"This is a wonderful sign!" Rachel exclaims with excitement once they're all back inside and the majority of them are sitting around dejectedly. She's still their unofficial leader because Sue and Will and Emma are busy discussing strategy in Sue's office (at least this time, from what Rachel can gather, they're _actually _discussing strategy) and Puck and Finn are guarding the front door. "At least now we know that there are people out there, people trying to fix this. And maybe they will!"

"Yeah, but these zombies, man…" Artie says, shaking his head.

"What about them?" Mercedes prompts, her voice holding a note of irritation.

"They're fast, like normal people, and they're really scary. I mean, in the movies…"

"Stop right there!" Rachel exclaims, maybe a bit too gleefully. "While of course it will be helpful to discuss various survival strategies implemented in zombie movies, it's also not relevant to discuss the effectiveness of the military in those films. I love fiction as much as the next person, but to rely on its accuracy for something that has its basis in the supernatural or, at the very least, the surreal, it seems foolish and disheartening. We must have hope as long as we are able to keep our chins up! We have to believe that everything is going to be all right!"

The rest of the glee clubbers sigh their half-hearted agreement, and Rachel's smile looks like it's about to burst and shower them all with rainbows and cotton candy. No one realizes that she's only smiling and only talking like a chipmunk on LSD because she's scared out of her mind, and she has no idea how to fix any of this.

* * *

Once Rachel is (finally) gone, Mercedes pulls out her phone again.

"Who does she think she is, telling us to put away our cell phones while she's talking to us?" she grumbles as she dials her mother's cell number.

"Yeah, well, _you _listened to her," Brittany points out.

"Yeah," Jacob agrees with a half-hearted, scared-shitless glare.

Mercedes has noticed that they're all starting to snap at each other. It's still an hour and a half away from noon, so it's not like they're hungry, but the fear and cabin fever of this whole fucked up situation is making them all cranky and annoying to be around.

She holds the cell phone to her ear for the ten thousandth time and waits, holding her breath for her mother to answer. She doesn't want to lose hope, but every time the ringing cuts off and transitions into her mother's chirpy voicemail message, Mercedes feels a little part of her brain shutting off from everything else. She looks to her left and sees that Kurt is worried, and she knows that if she looks to the right then she'll see Tina making the same face. She can't bear to look at anyone else right now, because either they'll be sympathetic or they'll be judging her, and she can't deal with either. She just wants to sit here and call her parents until her willpower forces them to answer.

She flips the phone closed before she can hear the voicemail start, because she honestly doesn't think she can deal with that right now. She feels like she's falling apart inside, but she doesn't want anyone to see. So she turns to Kurt and tries to think of something to say that will make her sound like she's not about to freak out and melt into a plus-sized puddle of tears all over his expensive new shoes.

Although, it's not like that sort of thing matters anymore, but she's not sure how firm a reality grasp on reality Kurt has at the moment. She knows that her own is pretty tentative, and Quinn's is even looser (judging from the way she keeps acting like Rachel has good ideas and stuff). The last thing she needs is for him to start giving her the silent treatment because he can't quite accept the fact that his designer purchases mean nothing now.

She dials the number again, rather than going through the phone book. She couldn't have even told someone the first three digits of her mother's cell phone number before today, but now she's hitting the buttons automatically, not even thinking before she lets her fingers slide over the keys. It feels more personal this way.

"You seriously need to stop that," Santana mutters, and Mercedes whirls around to tell her off before she realizes that Santana isn't even talking to her; she's talking to Brittany, who's picking at a cut on her elbow.

"It itches," Brittany mutters, shamefacedly lowering her arm and looking at Santana with something not unlike sheepishness.

Mercedes looks down at her phone and finally shoves her back into her pocket. She hears Kurt sigh with relief beside her, and she decides to ignore it for the time being. And then everyone is silent.

* * *

After Finn leaves Rachel and Puck alone to go to the bathroom ("number two" he whispers to Puck before he leaves so that Rachel can't hear, but so Puck will know that he's going to be gone for longer than a few minutes) Rachel turns to Puck with an expression on her face that Puck internally sighs at. He's accepted that Rachel is good to have around because strangely enough there's no one better to watch his back (Finn's great, but Finn's also easily distracted by loud noises, the promise of nudity, and shiny objects), but that doesn't mean that he wants to actually talk to her about her feelings, or his feelings, or anything that involves feelings at all.

"What is it? We've done everything we possibly could to prepare. Now we just have to wait for the big surge, we have to _fight _the big surge, and we have to win. That's all there is left to do."

"The others have been bringing up interesting points about things that I had not yet considered."

"What?"

"Zombie movies. I'd blocked the idea entirely because I kept telling myself that storylines in fiction should not have anything to do with our real world plan, but Artie kept mentioning them and finally…"

She breaks off and looks down at the ground, shaking her head abruptly.

"What? Spit it out. Jesus."

"I finally realized that Artie has been bringing up valid points this entire time, Noah. Zombie movies never end well. It's never as simple as just killing the zombies and then moving on with your life."

"In _28 Days Later_, it was," Puck points out.

"Yes, but the sequel negated that admittedly positive ending."

"You watch zombie movies?"

"Everyone watches zombie movies. They're statements on our materialism as a country and they're quite good when done correctly."

"How'd you feel about Zack Snyder's _Dawn of the Dead_?"

"I don't want this to turn into a discussion of…"

"You know, _Dollhouse_'s finale was sort of a zombie thing. It was pretty cool. They had guns, though, so that was…"

"…completely pointless, Noah! This isn't the time! I'm saying that I believe that we were mistaken when we thought that we could hide here forever."

"What?"

"If you'd been listening to me…"

"Well if you'd actually _say _something useful…"

"…you'd have realized that I've been trying to make this point. The movies in which the characters stay in one place for too long never end well. This is because they give the zombies an opportunity to gather around them. If we keep moving, we won't have to deal with the large hordes because we won't be stagnant long enough to gather too much attention to ourselves."

"Do you really think we're going to find a place as safe as this? I mean, fuck, this is like a fortress right now. And if we take another trip, we could get a fence put up around this place…"

"I know. I'm just saying that perhaps we should look for an exit. We need to try and contact other survivors. We should load the trucks up with whatever equipment and weapons we do not need at the moment, just in case we need to make a hasty retreat. Maybe canned food…"

Puck realizes suddenly that this isn't about being prepared. This isn't about Rachel being crazy. This is about Rachel being _scared_. She's unwilling to admit it, because they're the only two people who have been able to keep calm this long, but she's terrified.

He sighs and looks down at the ground, wishing that Finn would hurry up with his whole, taking a shit thing because Puck _really _doesn't feel like doing the touchy-feely crap. But he _did _promise himself that he'd be nicer to her, so it's not like he can just blow her off like he sort of wants to.

"Look, Rach…I get that this is obviously a lot to deal with. No one's expecting you to be totally freaky and normal, you know. I think you're actually scaring the hell out of them."

"I just thought that perhaps positivity…"

"Yeah, well…you know. People don't want positivity right now. People want to freak out. I mean, dude, when was this _ever _going to happen, you know?"

"Recovery seems unlikely at this point. Our parents are probably all dead. Everyone we know, everyone we love, aside from one another, they're probably all gone. How are we supposed to deal with that and not lose our minds? Honestly, since they don't care for me, I truly believe that the only thing that's keeping them calm in there is the fact that _you _are prepared. _You _can handle this."

Puck looks at Rachel and finally realizes that he's their new savior. This is more than just him being prepared. This is him taking the reins as McKinley High Glee Club's new leader. New shining star. New "Rachel's leading man". New Finn.

"Hey, guys!" Finn exclaims as he jogs around the corner. "I stopped to talk to Mr. Schue and Miss P, so that's why I took so long. I wasn't in the bathroom the whole time, or anything."

He winks at Puck, and Puck manages a smile back, even though he's inwardly starting to lose his shit.

For a kid who has avoided pressure for his entire life, this is a hell of a way to stop.

* * *

Hours of argument, and finally Will and Sue are finished. They're sitting beside one another in front of Emma's desk, their hair unruly and sticking in all directions. Sue keeps giving Will's coif a half-hearted glare, but blessedly lacks the energy to say anything. Emma smoothes the front of her shirt with shaking hands and releases a breath that she has been holding for what feels like days.

"All right. Now that we've moved past Sue's persecution complex and Will's feeling threatened by Sue's threatening remarks, I think that we should put aside our differences and come together to reassure the children. They are terrified right now, and we need to start preparing them for the reality that this isn't going to go away."

"That's right, we need to prepare them," Sue says, her tone as steely as ever despite her exhaustion. "Those little snot-nosed tykes are the only things keeping us from becoming a grab-bag of multi-ethnic Hamburger Helper. If they're going to sit around whining…"

"Sue, come on. You can't really expect them to just jump up and start killing people."

"Those aren't people, William."

"But they _were_. And these kids probably used to know most of them. It's not going to be easy for them to handle. Back me up, Emma."

Emma wants to back Will up in the worst way, but she knows that she can't. Because, like it or not, she agrees with Sue. She wishes that there was some way to stress that her agreement is based _only _in the fact that she wants to live.

"Will, I think it's important to consider Sue's words. Things have changed. Worrying about the trauma of this day will be something for later. We can't worry about it now. We just can't. We need to strengthen them to the idea of being able to do whatever it will take to survive, and we need to strengthen them quickly.

Will looks at her as if she has betrayed him, but she looks away. She needs to start taking her own advice. Strength is key.

"I can't say that I'm not impressed, Ginger. Turning your back on the Professor like that."

"Yes, well, I think that you have a valid point, Sue. It's hardly a betrayal if it's based on merit. Besides, I think that you are a heartless, cruel woman whose educational capabilities are seriously lacking. However, you're strong and you have the ability to inspire fear in the students that may possibly outweigh their fear of zombies. And while Will lacks that backbone, for lack of a better term, he makes up for it in heart." She smiles at Will hopefully. "He's a wonderful leader and a wonderful educator, and the kids look up to him and are very scared of disappointing him. I think that together, you can inspire them to rise to the occasion, and we might just have a chance at surviving this thing."

She shrugs innocently, and it's just then that Sue and Will both realize that she's managed to do what they failed to after hours of yelling and screaming; she has made them respect each other.

* * *

Kurt sits down next to Quinn in the art room, smiling as she looks up from her work.

"Rachel said I'd find you here."

"Yep," Quinn says lightly, trying to act like she isn't pleased that Kurt came to check up on her.

"I thought I'd see how you were doing. You seemed really out of it, earlier."

"Yeah, well."

"Hey," Kurt says seriously, and she finally turns and looks at him fully.

"What?"

"I know that you're having a hard time and you're a little jealous of the way Mercedes has needed me…"

"Yeah, right!"

"Don't be a bitch. It's not flattering on a pregnant girl, especially not today. I just want you to know that if you need anything, I'm here. You just can't expect me to drop everything and choose you over my best friend because there are zombies around. I mean, you shouldn't expect me to even _want _to help you after the things you've said to me in the past."

"I think that's _exactly_ what I can expect. I'm sitting here doing this _stupid _project for Rachel, not because I think that a shooting competition is something that I'll want to do with my now-infinite spare time, but because Rachel needed help. Does that make sense to you? _Me_, doing Rachel a favor?"

"Admittedly, I was a little afraid for your sanity when I heard."

"Well you shouldn't be. Because _there are zombies outside_, Kurt. Not zombies as in, high school kids too tired to do anything except shuffle and moan their way through the day, but zombies as in, high school kids trying to eat our brains, plus adults and even little kids. And for the first few hours, sure, I'm not surprised that I held on to my old stuff, thinking that everything was going back to normal before the day was done. But it's not. I was kidding myself, and you're kidding yourself too. There's no _point _in hating Rachel anymore. There's no point in pretending that everything she does is _personally _offensive anymore, because it never was. It was annoying because we were supposed to _think _that it was annoying, because people aren't supposed to have confidence like that especially if they don't have any friends. And it's not cool for me to call you names, and it's not cool for me to call Mercedes names, or Santana names, or anyone. And it never really _was _cool, but I thought it was."

She's crying now, and Kurt is looking at her as if she just grew another head entirely.

"Quinn, I wasn't even talking about Rachel. I have no idea what you're trying to say."

"Neither do I! I have no idea what I'm saying, or what I'm feeling, but all I know is that I don't hate her anymore. And I don't hate Puck, and I don't even hate Coach Sylvester. I think that everyone is amazing, because we're all we have. And it made me realize that my whole life up until now has been one massive lie. I don't _care _about stupid comments and name-calling anymore. I don't care about drawing faces in yearbooks, or leaving mean messages on Rachel's myspace, just because I can. None of that stuff matters. So stop being mean to Rachel. It doesn't matter anymore."

Kurt sighs and says, "It sounds like _you _need to take a nap."

"And it sounds like you're just holding on to how stuff used to be, even though it's never going to be like that again."

"Don't say that. Everything's going to be fine."

"No, Kurt. _Nothing_ is going to be fine again. Nothing. Can you leave me alone, now? I have to finish making this stupid sign."

With that and a sneer that would have rivaled any of her pre-pregnancy expressions, she turns back to her work with a flourish. Kurt reluctantly gets to his feet and pauses for a moment to pat Quinn comfortingly on her shoulder as he makes his way out the door.

* * *

Artie finds he and Tina a room away from everyone else on the second floor. Everyone is driving him crazy except Tina, and maybe Mike and Matt because it's not like they say much, anyway. He just wants to be alone with her, wants to feel her comforting presence without having to deal with mentally fighting off the totally _un_comforting presences of the others. He never thought he would be so tired of being around them. The club had quickly become a second family to him after it was formed, except they were a family who didn't love him unconditionally. Instead, they appreciated him for his merit. That was somehow more awesome, especially since they liked the music that he liked, and especially because he and Tina could have _Battlestar Galactica _marathons all they wanted, and no one would judge him _too _harshly (Kurt usually had something to say about it, but Kurt had a lot of stuff to say about a lot of things, so it was nothing to take personally. And then Tina showed him pictures of Jamie Bamber and Tahmoh Penikett, and Kurt stopped judging altogether).

There's something about being trapped together that makes them all seem a little less awesome than he used to think. Like all the annoying things that they did every day just seem so much more annoying now that he can't get away if he wants to. Before, he could just go home and hang out there, and everyone would seem so cool, like they didn't have flaws at all. Like they were perfect. But the way that they're all reacting to this whole situation is for some reason completely offensive to him, and he can't reconcile that with the expectations that he's formed. And maybe that's not fair, but he's not sure how to change it. He used to think that these people were _perfect_. Now he's realizing that they're just human.

But Tina.

Tina is like that metaphorical light in the darkness that Artie used to think was cliché and overused in literature and poetry. It seemed like every stupid person that they were reading about in English was always using that metaphor (or simile, or whatever). And he always used to think that it was the dumbest thing ever, but he doesn't think that anymore. Tina is beautiful, and her smile could light up the darkest of rooms, and the idea of keeping her safe is the only thing that's keeping him going.

And since the zombie apocalypse is a pretty good time to finish all the things you thought you'd have more time to get started, Artie figures that he needs to let her know.

So he closes the door behind them, and he wishes that he could get down on one knee, because even though he isn't planning on proposing, it still feels like it would be the right thing to do. Instead, he just smiles at her from where he's sitting, and he says, "I think you're amazing."

Tina laughs nervously.

"Okay?"

"I mean it. I think you're amazing, and I know that we're really good friends and maybe this is a little weird, but I wanted to let you know that I'm sorry I pushed you away after I found out that you didn't have a stutter. And I'm sorry that I made you think that I only loved your stutter and not the rest of you, because that's not true. I love everything about you. Your stutter was just one part of you, and I thought that it made you a completely different person, but I was wrong. It just makes you different, complicated, and that's okay. It's like…it's like when Helo found out that Sharon was really a cylon. He was mad for a while, but then he realized that it didn't matter. She lied to him, sort of helped cause the destruction of his species, but he loved her anyway, and nothing else mattered. That's what I realized about you, you know? I love you even though you faked your stutter, even though you lied. I love you even though we don't have that thing in common, that flaw. I love you because you always make me laugh, and you like the same music as me, and you think that I'm cool even though ninety percent of the world thinks that I'm a loser freak. I love you because you're _you_, because you have all the personality characteristics that are compatible with mine, and I think that it's amazing. Because everybody says that you never find your true love in high school, but if you're not my true love, then I don't know who else they could possibly send me, because no one more perfect than you exists in the entire world." He pauses for a moment and says, "Especially because now half the world is zombies."

He finally looks up from Tina's hands, and he sees Tina's eyes are filled with tears. Before he can say anything else, she throws herself into his lap (just like she did when she first came into the school crying because her parents were dead, only better. So much better) and squeezes her arms around his neck so tightly that he's pretty sure he's never going to be able to breathe again.

"You are the best person in the world," she says finally, once Artie is sure he's going to die of the lack of oxygen before she replies. "And I love you too. I love you even _more _than Sharon loved Helo."

Artie pulls back a little bit and looks at her seriously.

"Come on, now," he says. "Let's be real. That's not even possible."

Tina just laughs and hugs him again.

* * *

"Ugh, do _not _go up there," Quinn says to Rachel as she walks back down the stairs with more glitter in her hands than was probably used in the production of the whole first season of _RuPaul's Drag Race_. "Tina and Artie are sucking face."

"Are you sure one of them isn't a zombie?" Rachel asks nervously, picking up a nearby fire axe like she's ready to Annie Wilkes the shit out of the both of them.

"Calm down, Rambo. I'm sure. I know making out noises when I hear them."

She indicates her bulging stomach as if the existence of her fetus makes her an expert on all things sexual, instead of a novice whose luck or divine intervention sucks big time. Rachel shrugs and takes the box of glitter from Quinn's hands, rifling through it with a satisfied smile on her face.

"Perfect," she says.

"I really don't understand why the glitter is even necessary. We could just paint the sign red, and the same effect would be achieved. Red paint on white sheets is going to grab the attention of a helicopter whether or not it sparkles like that stupid vampire in that stupid book that Brittany is still obsessed with."

"Well, red paint is boring. And nothing catches the eye like sunlight reflecting off of a million tiny flecks of colored plastic."

"We'll be lucky if the pilot doesn't go blind and crash land into the roof, killing us all."

"Your morbidity is probably bad for the baby," Rachel points out in a sing-song voice, which Quinn ignores as they walk back towards the arts room. "Were Artie and Tina really making out? That's strangely adorable."

"Yeah, well, I'm surprised that one of them got over their crippling shyness to initiate. They sit there staring at each other all day. It's sickening. Like when you get to the bottom of a coffee that you put too much sugar in."

"I love that analogy, Quinn!"

"Thanks, Rachel."

Then they realize that they're smiling at each other, and they quickly stop.

"Let's just go get this stupid sign over with," Quinn says. Rachel gruffly agrees.

* * *

"I'm telling you. I saw them."

"Quinn _hates _Rachel. Almost as much as Rachel hates Quinn."

"Yeah, but Puck, I _saw _them. With my eyes. They were _laughing_."

"What, like, at each other?"

"No, about something else. Quinn said something about coffee and then Rachel was all like, wow, cool analog stick, or something. And then Quinn was…"

"Okay, I get it. But _why_?"

Puck and Finn ponder that difficult question for a moment, their minds whirling as they try to envision a scenario in which Rachel and Quinn would voluntarily smile at each other. Finn is more scared than intrigued, because he keeps imagining how they might be talking about him, and then Quinn might tell Rachel about his little _problem_, and then Rachel will stop liking him. Which will actually make his life a little easier, but for some reason he doesn't want that to happen.

Puck just imagines them making out in a janitor's closet.

"Maybe Quinn's working an angle," Puck says finally. "Maybe she's trying to get Rachel to do something for her."

"Dude, don't be a jerk. Quinn wouldn't do that."

Puck levels Finn with an expression that the other boy doesn't understand. Finn just shrugs and looks around helplessly, like he's asking the imaginary gathered judges to weigh in. Puck sighs.

"I'm not being a jerk. Quinn's a haughty-ass bitch, and you know it. You're just too whipped to actually acknowledge it, because you think she's got super sonic Christian hearing or some shit. For the record, you're mixing up mistresses. Rachel's the one with the hearing, except it's super sonic _Jew _hearing, and it's ten times stronger than any of that Jesus crap."

"Shut up! Rachel's not my mistress. She's just my friend."

"Don't even _try _to pull that shit with me, dude. I'm not retarded."

Rachel appears suddenly around the corner, grinning brightly with a folded white sheet draped over her arm.

"Hi, guys," she says with some of that ridiculous glee that never fails to freak the fuck out of everyone. Finn looks at Puck, horrified. Puck just smiles.

"If I remembered any of that Hebrew shit I learned when I was thirteen, I'd totally bust out a random sentence right now just to make you paranoid as hell," he says devilishly.

"Uh, hey Rachel!" Finn says, looking appropriately disturbed. "Is there any special reason you came to see us?"

"Yes, actually. Quinn and I are finished with our fabulous and attention-grabbing sign for the helicopter pilot to see when he again flies over the school, so I need Noah's help in getting it onto the roof. I would do it myself, but of course I need my zombie partner in genocide to watch my back."

Puck tries and fails to quickly stifle a victorious smile.

"What? Puck? Why not me?" Finn asks.

"No offense, Finn. I think you're a wonderful strong person and more than capable of handling most physical activity, but you are an extremely tall and extraordinarily clumsy person. I will not be held responsible for your death via falling and breaking your neck while trying to save the rest of us. While Quinn, I'm sure, would enjoy the prestige of bearing the son of a martyr, I believe she would also be morose about your early departure from this world, and she is already morose enough about her parents. So, in this instance, I think that you'd best leave the climbing of ladders and the precarious balancing on slippery rooftops to Noah and I."

Puck looks at Finn and sees that it's pretty clear that Finn would be arguing if he had any idea what Rachel was just trying to say. So he steps up and claps Finn on the shoulder.

"She needs you to protect the homefront, pal. Keep those women and children safe. So you plant yourself here and make sure that no one gets through these doors, got it?"

"Well, okay," Finn says hesitantly, beaming at Rachel with newfound confidence although it's still pretty clear that he's relatively hurt. "I won't let you down."

Rachel smiles at him and leads Puck out of the school, sighing disparagingly once they're in the parking lot and moving around the side of the building to where the door that leads to the roof-access ladder is nestled in some dark creepy corner.

"Finn is a wonderful person, but…"

"You don't have to tell me," Puck insists. Rachel sighs again and pulls out the ring of keys that she probably stole from Coach Sylvester, finding the right one after only a few moments. A gunshot rings out on the other side of the building, and Mike and Matt can be heard cheering.

"But I do. Because you're almost no better," she says, ignoring the sound.

"Whoa, hey!" Puck exclaims, offended by the accusation.

"I'm just saying, the two of you have a very deliberate naivety that is normally charming, but today seems rather grating. Probably because I have spent the last hour talking about my deepest feelings and fears and desires with Quinn Fabray, who is possibly the most internally damaged person I have ever met. Not that it wasn't lovely, but…"

"Look, I really don't care about your stupid feelings talk or whatever, just don't compare me to Finn again, all right? Finn's nothing like me."

Rachel looks at him with something like pity as she closes the door and leaves them in relative darkness as she feels her way around for the bright yellow ladder.

"You truly are a puzzle, Noah," she says as if this is the kind of conversation that people have while doing something like this. "You realize that you just implied that Finn is the better person, which is curious considering that you objected so strongly to being compared to him. I thought at first that it was a result of your not wanting to be compared to Finn's admittedly subpar intelligence, but you truly believe Finn to be as amazing as everyone says, don't you?"

Puck is understandably confused by the question, and especially the sentiment behind it. She sounds surprised, like it's some fucking revelation that he thinks Finn is awesome. Finn is his best friend, and everyone thinks he is amazing. That means he pretty much _is _amazing, right? A little slow and definitely in need of some _serious _sex ed, but still amazing.

"Whatever," is his well-thought-out and clever retort.

"It's remarkable how much we have in common. Truly, Noah."

She starts making her way up the ladder, and it takes until she unlatches the door in the ceiling and pushes it open to rain golden, sparkling light down on Noah's head below for him to realize what she just said.

"Hey, wait, what the fuck?" he asks, but hears only echoing chuckles filtering down in response.

He follows her up the ladder and frowns as he takes the offered corner of the sheet and helps her spread it out.

"Grab those bricks over there and help me weigh down the sheet," she says, indicating a nearby pile of old bricks that was probably at one point supposed to be used to repair the leaky spot over the cafeteria.

"What did you mean about us having shit in common. I mean, no offense…"

"Of course not. Anyway, I only meant that we don't give ourselves enough credit. I am constantly allowing myself to be pulled into the misconception that Quinn's differences from me indicate that she's a better person. You do the same thing for Finn. And if there's anything that I learned from my truly informational conversation with Quinn today, it's that 'different' does not necessarily mean 'better'. Nor is everything as it seems. Finn has elements to his personality that are, let's be frank, undesirable. And so do you. That doesn't mean that Finn is light and you are darkness."

"That is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. Have you not _met _me or something? Seriously, Rachel, I'm an asshole. And I always sort of have been."

"People would say the same thing about me."

"But you're _not _an asshole, you're just annoying."

"I'm also selfish."

Puck realizes that she's right, a little bit. They might not be identical personality twins, but they definitely have a little in common. Especially now that they're both the only people who can deal with the whole zombies thing, and people are still treating Finn and Quinn like they're valuable assets that they have to protect. Meanwhile, Puck and Rachel are the ones doing all the heavy lifting. Mostly because Puck and Rachel have felt alienated from everybody for their entire lives, and they've turned hatred into something productive, now that everyone's out to get them in a more-than-just emotional way.

He starts to say something like that to Rachel (although probably with a lot more vagueness and a lot less sense) but then he sees that Rachel's eyes are fixated on a point in the distance. Her expression is the kind of thing that no one wants to see on anyone's face ever, especially not during the zombie apocalypse.

Puck follows her line of sight and sees that there are zombies coming.

And not one or two, or even twelve or thirty. There are _waves_ of zombies approaching from the center of town, moving slowly down the road. Due to their position on the roof, Rachel and Puck have a very privileged view of the whole shitstorm taking place, and neither can really believe what they're seeing. Some of the zombies are blanketing the sides of houses, pounding on the paneling, some are wandering into front doors, some are chasing down frantic innocents only discernable due to their running and falling and the fact that they're being chased. But most of the zombies are continuing down the road, undeterred from their goal. Their goal, of course, is McKinley High School.

"You've got to be shitting me," Puck whispers. They turn and look at each other, and both unconsciously straighten their posture and look toward the approaching doomtastic horizon with their teeth bared into eerily similar sneers of defiance.

"They've rationally accepted that they have no hope of catching the fleeing civilians," Rachel says with the appropriate amount of horror.

"So they're coming back to eat everyone who's left," Puck finishes gruffly.

"We'd better get down there."

"Yeah."

"If we survive the next several hours, it will probably qualify as a miracle."

"Or at least really fucking awesome."

Rachel looks at him and says, "If the helicopter doesn't return, we're going to need to find somewhere to go. Somewhere safe, somewhere they managed to cordon off. Maybe there are whole cities out there, free from zombies. Can you imagine? Already it seems like a distant hope."

Puck doesn't believe it's true, but he says, "Of course there are whole cities. Yeah. Of course. We'll get Coach Sylvester to call some of those friends in the military she's always talking about. Maybe we can get a shortwave radio, too. Something like in those big trucks."

Rachel nods, relieved to hear him agree even if she doesn't believe it herself. At least now they have a goal beyond surviving: find other survivors. Find people who will take the responsibilities off their shoulders.

"We're going to be okay, because we're going to lead them out of this. Together."

She reaches over and grabs his hand, and the look in her eyes is something intoxicating. It's pure, badass, blood lust. She wants to kill these fuckers just as much as he does, and probably just as violently.

"You bet your ass we're going to get them," he says, and her grin is so bright and scary that he almost wants to push her down and take her like an animal right here on the roof.

But, you know, there are zombies around.

"Let's do this," he says, and she squeezes his hand. And even though it's totally fucking stupid, he keeps going with, "Together."


	8. Rambo, McClane, Conner, Lopez

Ugh, so sorry about the length of time between updates. I need a more regular source of inspiration. And fewer papers to write.

* * *

**Chapter 8:** Rambo, McClane, Conner, Lopez

There's something thrilling about hearing that you're about to have your ass handed to you by a bunch of ex-people who want nothing more than to rip your face into pieces. Then again, that might just be fear. Kurt really isn't sure. The only thing that he _does _know for sure is that he's practically _overflowing_ with the adrenaline that first was released into his blood stream when he finally grasped the meaning of Rachel and Puck's labored effort to breathlessly explain the magnitude of the horde coming towards them.

Of course, Coach Sylvester had then spent an unholy amount of time posturing and pontificating about the best ways to go about dealing with it, while Mr. Schue rattled on about how they shouldn't be afraid, and Miss Pillsbury stood whimpering about hopes and dreams in a corner, listened to only by Tina, who was simply too polite to walk away. And maybe too afraid, too.

Kurt prefers to stand beside Finn and Quinn, mostly because his success rate with the two of them is so far at one hundred percent, but also because Finn has a habit of acting very protective when he's in danger, and that comfort is something that Kurt secretly desires at the moment. It's like being a rechargeable battery. He just needs to get plugged into the dock (not literally, although he wouldn't be opposed) for a few minutes, and then he should have all the strength he needs.

He bends down with a shaking hand and picks up the assault rifle at his feet. Coach Sylvester is carefully counting rounds, bullets, clips, shells, guns, melee weapons. Anything that she can get her hands on, she's counting.

"What's the plan?" Kurt asks aloud, but no one answers him right away. Artie, Mike, and Matt are all getting the sniper rifles set up in the windows. Some of them come with tripods, like they were cameras or something. It's sort of surreal. Downstairs, he can hear Puck, Rachel, and Santana all yelling at each other as they push the desks and bookcases to the front door. Jacob flits behind Coach Sylvester, lost without the direction she has long since stopped giving him in the face of more important things to do. Quinn is praying silently, her lips moving frantically as she gazes at the fluorescent light above them and grows increasingly red in the face as she fights the urge to sob. Finn looks lost, torn between his girlfriend, the windows, and Rachel downstairs. Instead of choosing one of the three, he just stands helplessly, motionlessly. Kurt sees all of this, hears all of this, and knows that nobody has a clue. At least, not here.

He leaves the room quickly and jogs down the stairs, heading to the front door. Rachel, on her way to grab another few chairs from the cafeteria, almost runs into him around the corner. She squeals with surprise, and Kurt only doesn't make fun of her because he lets out a shriek, too.

"We're almost finished," Rachel says hurriedly once she recovers, brushing him off like he's a minor hurdle on her way to stardom (only in this case, he's fairly certain that "stardom" is Zombie Killer of the Day, which is a title that he _will _have, if only because he doesn't want her to feel like she has no competition).

"Rachel, sweetie, you were the one who saw that horde first. So I assume you saw how spine-chillingly large it is?"

"Well, it's really not so bad if you think about it in terms of numbers," Rachel says airily. Kurt has to hand it to her; she's a fantastic actress. None of her usual melodramatic method here. This is _pure acting_. Clean, unsullied by affectation. He would praise her for it if there weren't more important considerations at the moment.

"Rachel, you don't have to do this. Not around me. We attended the same summer workshops, remember. This easy-breezy zombie slayer act isn't going to cut it."

It would have certainly cut it were it anyone but him, honestly, but he knows better. And the best way to wear down Rachel's defenses is to make her think that she's doing bad at something. Everyone knows that.

Predictably, Rachel sighs with frustration and says, "Kurt, of course I'm terrified at the prospect of fighting all those mindless people, especially with the knowledge that my friends and family are possibly among them, but what other choice do we have? Like Noah said: at the moment, there is only surviving. There is no time for fear."

"You realize you're quoting Noah Puckerman for inspiration, don't you? And that he once split his time equally between throwing slushies in your face and throwing _me _in a _dumpster_?"

"You were never so quick to lump you and I into the same group before, so I'd ask you not to start now. There are zombies, Kurt. And I think it's time you get a little perspective." She starts to walk away, but stops and turns back, her eyes revealing just how reluctant she is to say whatever she's about to say next. "Would you like to help?"

Kurt knows that she's only being polite because it denotes taking her own advice, but he's grateful anyway. Because she and Quinn are right, of course, to set aside their differences. If things ever manage to go back to anything resembling normalcy, he will feel free to let out his pent up snark in the most volatile explosion of bitter sarcasm ever in recorded history. But for the time being, he's going to cooperate until he drops dead of exhaustion. He's going to force himself to focus, to keep his mind on survival and nothing else. He's going to help people, he's going to _save _people, because that's what life boils down to when it's just the basics. And if there's anything he fears more than dying in the zombie apocalypse, it's living _alone _in the zombie apocalypse. He needs these people even more than they need him.

"I'd love to help."

* * *

Will puts his hands on Emma's shoulders, trying to get her to look at him. She resists, turning her face in whatever direction he's not, like avoiding his gaze will help her avoid the fact that this is _real_.

"Emma."

"No, Will. I can't. I can't. Don't ask me to…"

"I'm not going to ask you to shoot anyone," Will says soothingly. He's frustrated, but he has to understand. He's feeling the same pants-shitting terror that she is, after all, except that for her it's always been a struggle. _Everything_ has been a struggle. And this is quite a bit more worthy of a struggle than anything else has ever been. And if he could be patient while she insisted on scrubbing down the door handle of his car with a toothbrush before she touched it, then he can be patient with this.

"It's not that. Shooting…they're not real people. I can accept that. I can accept that they are dead, that they are monsters, that for us to survive they have to die again. I accept that. I can. But I can't…I can't _do _this. Any of this. I don't want to be eaten, Will. I don't want my last moments to be…" She shudders and fails to finish, allowing him to fill in the mental blanks, assuming he will understand. And he _does_, because he knows her better than he knows anyone. And if she dies infected, being torn limb from limb by dirty mouths, bacteria laden mouths, and hands that grab her in all the wrong places, then he will never be able to forgive himself. Because that would be her worst nightmare come to life, and he would do _anything _to help her avoid that. _Anything_.

But first he has to get her to her feet.

"There's no choice though, Emma. We don't have a choice. It's happening whether we can accept it or not."

"Erma, get your sorry ass off the ground," Sue barks from across the room, and a pointed glare from Will fails to incite much empathy. He starts to get up to go talk to her privately, but Emma grabs his arms, shaking her head from side to side with the doe-eyed enthusiasm that he's never been able to resist.

"Will, that's not it. You're not getting it. I'm _going_ to fire a weapon, and I'm _going_ to kill at least one zombie. I can promise you that. But Will, _you_ have to promise _me_ that if the doors don't hold…"

"Emma, I can't…"

"_If the doors don't hold_, and if those zombies get in here, I want you to shoot me. I won't be able to do it myself, but I don't want to die like that. I don't want to be eaten." She starts to cry, big eyes filling with bigger tears. "Please, Will. I _hate_ irony. Don't let me die like that."

Will feels his own throat closing with the difficulty of trying not to cry, but he manages a nod. He understands, at least, what she means. Her paralyzing fear needs to be assuaged somehow, and she chooses to assuage it by having him promise an out. An out that he's not sure he can deliver, but he has to. Because he can't let her die in the way she's so afraid of. He will kill her a thousand times before he will deny her anything. That's always been the problem, hasn't it? Saying no to her is impossible, especially now that she's all he has left.

Emma's trembling fingers reach down to her shoes and pull the straps loose. By the time she's barefoot, her hands have stopped shaking. She has taken several deep breaths. Finally, she reaches her hand out to Will, and he helps her up. She's far from okay, but she's going to try. For him, maybe. For the kids, most likely. But he's selfish, he's weak, and it's the end of the world. He can pretend that it's for him, just for a little while.

She makes her way over to Sue and holds out her hand for a weapon with what can only be described as an iron gaze. Her unblinking stare meets Sue's second for ferocious second, and finally Sue surrenders a gun that's almost too heavy for Emma to lift.

"I hope you know better than to point that at the back of my head, Bambi, or you better believe my zombie's going to drag your ass to hell with me."

Emma tries not to look afraid while she surreptitiously aims the gun in a direction not at all close to Sue's head. Sue just nods and turns back to the window with her binoculars, sneering at the approaching horde.

"Men, women, and the handicapped. I give you permission to fire at will."

It misses, but Emma will for the rest of her life take pride in the fact that she was the first to pull the trigger.

* * *

Rachel fires her third round out the window and cheers when it hits its mark. She's enjoying the current situation _only_ because she can cheer as loudly and as frequently as she wants to, and no one complains. Partly because they are all cheering as well, but partly because her excelling at the current activity is helping to keep them alive, so it's rather hard for even the most negative among them to judge her _too_ harshly.

"You're a wonderful shot, Rachel," Jacob says from her left, frightening her almost to the point of missing her next target (but, of course, not quite; the brains explode out the back of the man's head all the same). "You handle that long, cylindrical weapon like a professional."

"May I remind you that this weapon is also quite effective against human beings?" Rachel asks incredulously. Jacob just smiles, as oblivious to the most overt of hints, as always. Rachel sighs heavily and ignores Mercedes' chuckle.

"There's no hope for you now, Rachel," she says sagely as she fires a shot that tears half the face off of Mr. Peterson, that asshole librarian who used to creep around behind the stacks of books and spy on the kids, hopefully just to make sure they weren't doing anything untoward, although she'd heard some _stories_. "You are the real life Lara Croft, and his little asthmatic brain can't handle that."

"Hey, asthma is _not _his problem," Artie is quick to defensively point out, one hand instinctively patting the pocket where his inhaler resides. "His problem is that he's not even _holding _a gun. Seriously, Jacob, man, get on it."

"I don't believe in weapons unless they're in the hands of an Amazon princess," Jacob insists, and for some reason that's the absolute limit of skeeve that Sue's willing to put up with from him. She wordlessly grabs him by the back of the collar and drags him three windows down to stand next to Puck. That shuts him up, as predicted. And also puts a smile on Puck's face.

"Seriously, does he have to sleep in the same room as us, or can we stick him on the roof?" Quinn mutters from where she stands between Rachel and Mercedes. She loads her weapon just like Coach Sylvester taught her (sending a look in the coach's direction to make sure that she sees Quinn's competence on display), but misses her target. Fortunately, Coach Sylvester is now busy watching Mike pick off the zombies like he's playing _Duck Hunt_. Quinn turns to Rachel and continues the conversation to cover up for her embarrassing lack of accuracy (she can almost _hear _her father reminding her that she's the daughter of a wealthy Republican, and she'd better start shooting like it). "Because I know you're his favorite flavor, but it's the zombie apocalypse, and I'm thinking he's due for a trade-in anyway." She pauses and then says, "Notice that I didn't say 'upgrade'."

Rachel smiles a little, although she forces herself not to say anything that will likely ruin the moment. She hasn't learned many things from her short stay at the school, but she _has _learned that when it comes to Quinn Fabray, _less _is infinitely _more_, at least in terms of conversation.

She fires another shot and hits her target. If only there weren't at least four hundred zombies trailing behind it, that would certainly be cause for celebration.

* * *

Puck is having the time of his life. He's not sure if it's the shooting part, the killing part, or the no-consequences part, but it's all pretty awesome. Okay, so the threat of death is pretty much making his heart explode with fear, but other than that it's like he's been given free license to be a bona fide action star; something he's always secretly dreamed of ever since his first viewing of _First Blood_ when he was seven (the giant scar on Finn's knee is a reminder of just how awesome he was at setting those Rambo traps around their treehouse in the woods). It would probably be better if there were _less _zombies, because they're pretty scary, and it's like playing _Left 4 Dead _on expert, except real, and that's _not _awesome.

"Puckerman, keep your head in the game," Coach Sylvester yells from across the room as he misses his target. He wipes the sweat off his brow and looks down the line. Everyone is focused and blank-faced like a bunch of robots, except Miss Pillsbury, who is the only one who looks about as scared as they probably all feel. He's not sure if that's annoying or if she has the right idea. Acting like a hardass certainly isn't doing _him _any favors. He's still scared as shit and he's not really sure what to do about it except _not _act scared as shit. Because now everyone depends on him, like Rachel said. And now he's noticing that they're no longer looking at Finn to decide whether or not to freak the fuck out. They're looking at _him_. He honestly can't think of anything scarier in the world.

Not even the little bastard he just hit between the eyes.

He looks down the line again and catches Rachel's eye. She smiles, hesitantly at first, but then bigger once she realizes that he's smiling too. He can't help it. She's just so damn _hot _with that gun in her hands. And she's standing next to Quinn, pregnant Quinn, with her pregnant belly and Puck's kid inside it. It's simultaneously totally arousing and totally nauseating, because suddenly he remembers that he's not the hero these people need.

He's just some asshole who slept with his best friend's girl, saddled him with the responsibilities of fatherhood without any of the sex perks, then dated the girl his best friend _really _liked, partly because she's Jewish and hot, and partly because he knew Finn liked her and so it was like a compromise that only _he _knew about.

So yeah.

Some hero.

* * *

Finn isn't sure what's going on. He knows that something's different, something's off-balance, and it's not just the fact that there are zombies trying to eat him. It's something else. It's like everything used to be in a bubble, but now it's popped, and everything is out in the open. It's weird. He hates it.

First of all, Kurt is acting really different. Finn knows that Kurt likes him a lot, and it's sort of flattering even though it's really random and sometimes uncomfortable a little. It's not that he doesn't like gay people. Once, Rachel's dads made him cookies that were almost as good as the cookies Rachel baked that time she slapped him and felt bad about it later. Plus his aunt is gay, and her wife is always buying him stuff because his mom can't afford it. He never met a gay person he didn't like (unless Coach Sylvester is a lesbian, which Puck says she is, but Finn isn't sure because sometimes he catches her looking at Figgins, and it's weird), but it's a little different when it's someone who likes _him_. It's like with Rachel, only different, because it's bad enough that he can't be with Rachel because he really does like her. He likes Kurt too, but in a different way, and he _really_ isn't gay. He thinks Kurt is cool and has nice hair and sometimes he thinks, _well, maybe_…but that's just a little. He isn't really gay; he loves Quinn, and he sort of loves Rachel, and he hates it because he doesn't want to hurt Kurt's feelings and he isn't sure how to deal with it. With Rachel at least it's like, "Oh, if Quinn didn't exist…", so it's like, not bad for her self-confidence or whatever. But with Kurt it's different because it's like, "You're not a girl, so…", and that's mean, he thinks.

Or maybe the other way around is mean. He's not sure.

But suddenly the problem doesn't seem so bad, because Kurt isn't paying attention to him at all.

And even worse, neither is Rachel.

Because the thing is, Finn _knows _he's nicer than Puck. It's just one of those facts that their entire relationship is based on. Puck gets to be mean and say what's on his mind, and Finn gets to be the nice one. Puck does what needs to be done even if it's not really nice, and Finn makes sure that not everyone hates them. That's why they got to be popular in the first place. Puck liked beating up other kids, and Finn liked being nice to everyone. So people liked Finn, and Finn liked Puck, so people begrudgingly started liking Puck too.

But now, things are different. People are starting to like Puck because Puck is all strong and whatever, and he is even more freakishly prepared for this than Finn is. Because while Finn was playing _Modern Warfare 2_ and watching _Saving Private Ryan_ for the tenth time, Puck was playing _Left 4 Dead_ and watching every zombie movie ever made. So Finn would have been totally perfect for a_ Red Dawn_ style invasion during school hours, but of _course _they got a zombie apocalypse instead. Finn is now the sidekick, and Finn has _never _been the sidekick.

It's not that he even really likes being the leader; it's really annoying how sometimes people act like he's all important even though he doesn't really think that he is. But he's sort of used to the idea that Puck is his muscle and he's the brains of the operation or whatever. He _likes _that, because that's the way it's always been. And now it's like he's Puck's sidekick, or maybe _Rachel _is Puck's sidekick, and that's not really cool because he wants Rachel to be _his _sidekick, but instead he has Quinn, who isn't even good at shooting a gun and she keeps praying even though Finn's pretty sure that if God was going to get involved, he probably would have done something before now.

So it kind of sucks.

* * *

Artie has never been more thankful to be wheelchair bound. First of all, it lets him rest his gun right on the windowsill, which is actually making it really easy to shoot. He didn't think he'd be good at aiming, but this is awesome. Plus, the zombies don't look quite as scary when he can only see the ones that are sort of far away, since the first wave is too far past his view to actually get a good look at. He prefers the illusion of distance. Slow, ambling distance. Earlier when he was shooting zombies out the window when there weren't so many of them, it was different. They were running, or at least walking fast. They'd caught scent of _something_ and were coming to get it. But this is different. They aren't in a rush. They're just sort of mindlessly moving on towards the school, like they don't even really care. And that's actually kind of insulting.

Of course, he knows that in a few minutes they could all be screwed, but it's still hard not to be optimistic. It may have taken the advent of the end of the world for it to happen, but he's finally got a girlfriend. And not just _any _girlfriend; Tina Cohen-Chang, who is possibly the prettiest girl he's ever seen in his life. So hell, he could die happy.

But he'd rather not. Really, seriously. He would rather not.

"Just because your legs don't work, that doesn't give you an excuse not to squeeze that trigger finger," Coach Sylvester bellows. Artie frantically squeezes off a shot and it thunks harmlessly into a tree. He winces at the anticipation of a chew-out of epic proportions, but she's moved on to cheering Rachel's spotless aim.

And _of course_ Rachel has spotless aim. Rachel's good at everything. It was only a_ little_ unnerving when it was just singing, acting, gymnastics, and anything involving academia, but now it's _way_ creepier. Who knew that the entire time they were avoiding her and making fun of her behind her back, she'd had the power to snipe their brains out from a hundred yards away. Not cool.

Except, now it's cool. Now it's _very _cool. She and Mike (who are pretty close in terms of their kills, according to Coach Sylvester's eagle-eyed tally) are pretty much taking out more than half of the zombies by themselves. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't so essential to their continued survival. It reminds him of that time Tina signed his name on the Glee sign-up sheet for him. He didn't like the fact that he needed her help in order to do something so simple, but he liked the fact that she was willing to help him. He also liked the fact that her signing the paper meant that he would get to spend a lot more time with her. That was awesome.

This isn't quite as awesome in that respect, but it's still pretty kickass. And Artie feels like it would make an amazing comic book-turned-movie, if they had the right names attached (Eliza Dushku as an adult Rachel springs to mind immediately, but that may just be the fact that he and his fully-functioning penis have kind of a crush on her).

"Excellent work, Berry. You may just have the makings of a survivor, after all. If you stop humming whatever show tune you're humming, you get an A."

Rachel, in the spirit of competition always, doesn't question Coach Sylvester's arbitrary assignment of grades, and stops humming immediately. Artie kind of misses it, even though he wants to smack himself for even thinking it. The truth is, Rachel's optimism is almost as uplifting as Puck's overwrought machismo. They're a nice balance to the group. Rachel smiles and sings and acts like everything's going to be okay, while Puck frowns and snarls and reminds them that the world is shitty and they should probably brush up on their shooting skills when they aren't busy bitching and moaning. Together, they bring a spark of sanity to the group, Artie thinks, although there's no way in hell he's actually going to _say _that to anyone, since he knows that no one will agree with him.

At least, not until they survive this epic horde, because then they'll have no choice but to concede that he maybe has a point.

* * *

Mercedes is actually rocking the shit out of the whole zombie thing. She had been pretty sure, earlier, that the day she shot a dude in the head would be the day the world would burst into flames, because she was a pacifist (at least when it came to guns. She was not opposed to using blunt instruments or her car. That was _fair_. Sort of. It didn't _have_ to make sense, anyway), but so far things are actually going pretty awesomely. Of course, the fact that she's not as good a shot as Rachel or Santana or Mike is kind of a letdown, but she's actually all right with that, because at least she's better than Brittany and Quinn, and they've always been better than her at most things, at least in the eyes of the school, so she can finally hold something other than singing over their heads (if she hears _one _more person, alive or undead, say that her singing isn't really an accomplishment because, and she quotes, "she's black, and all black people can sing", she's actually going to beat them to death with the butt of her gun). And maybe being awesome at killing is something her mother wouldn't be proud of, but she thinks that her ability to adapt to a situation like this is actually pretty spectacular.

Also, out of anyone she's probably the most impervious to kickbacks. Everyone else is falling backwards at least three or four steps, but not her. She is determined to be solid and steady, and she's probably bruising her shoulder something awful, but Coach Sylvester has complimented her like thirteen times. So, she's pretty sure it's worth it.

Also worth it? Seeing those fuckers fall to the ground. Because even though her parents might still be alive (she will believe they're dead when she sees their walking corpses, and not a moment before), there is still a certain amount of satisfaction to know that she's ridding the world of this infestation one-by-one, avenging the probable deaths of the two people she cares about more than anyone in the world. And even though her parents are in Florida, she likes to imagine every time that she's shooting the brains out of the bastard or bitch who bit them in the first place (although they're not dead, they can't be, and she won't accept it).

It's just nice to imagine that she's making a difference.

* * *

Santana knows that she and Brittany are going to survive this apocalypse. She knows it because she was raised by parents who never let her believe for a second that failure was even an option. She was always taught to succeed at whatever she put her mind to, and in this case her mind is set firmly on getting she and Brittany through this. The rest of the kids, she doesn't really care about. She'll be honest. She only wants them alive because theoretically, the more people who are around, the less likely she and Brittany will be killed.

So when she treats them all like she cares so much about them and about what happens to them, that's bullshit. She doesn't care. She doesn't _want _to care. Because the odds of them all making it out alive are astronomical, and she's got it hard enough just caring about Brittany.

"I told you to stop picking at that scratch," she grinds out between her teeth, her annoyance level rising. She loves Brittany, there's no doubt about that, but it's hard not to get frustrated with her sometimes. Brittany is smart about things that matter, about emotional things, and she always knows the right thing to say whenever Santana is upset, but she's still a little slow about other things. Sometimes Santana feels like she's raising a fucking _child_, and that's probably the least sexy thing in the world.

Not that Brittany _isn't _sexy. Before this morning, Santana had been hesitant to admit that she felt anything other than the occasional lust for her fellow Cheerio, but things have changed. She's being forced to confront the idea of living without Brittany by her side, and that is _not _an option. So maybe her feelings are deeper than she'd realized. Now she just needs to find a way to tell that to Brittany. She knows that Brittany will probably be excited. She'll probably say something about how she'd been waiting for Santana to bring it up, because it's obvious that Brittany cares about her, she thinks. Possibly more than she cares about Brittany, but after this morning she's not sure.

The thought of living without Brittany is _actually_ impossible. It's something she just _can't_ imagine. And Santana, she isn't as dumb as everyone thinks she is. Yes, she cares too much about stupid things like being head cheerleader, and _yes _her popularity is far more important to her than it should be, but she _understands_ things. She understands that the likelihood of Brittany doing something stupid that will get her killed is pretty fucking high. She understands that her own survival isn't exactly set in stone considering she let herself get attached to Sue Sylvester who, when asked about the survival plan, answered, "don't die". There's no guarantee that anyone's going to make it at all, because they're a bunch of stupid kids from Ohio who don't know the first thing about surviving beyond the obvious stuff like eating and drinking and remembering to breathe.

Because what happens when Quinn's baby starts to be born? What happens when someone gets sick and dies from it? What happens when they run out of food and water and supplies? What happens when _no one _rescues them?

She can't stop thinking about it, and it's driving her crazy. So the only thing she's letting herself worry about from now on is Brittany. Brittany and her stupid penchant for getting into ridiculous trouble, and Brittany and her beautiful hair and her unwillingness to let Santana go three seconds without smiling. There's no way Santana is going to let anything happen to her.

She'd rather die.

* * *

The first wave of zombies finally gets past the point where it's hard to shoot at them through the upstairs windows, and Puck gestures to Rachel and Santana wordlessly. Kurt follows, unasked, because he knows that they can use his accuracy even if they don't realize it yet.

They take the stairs as quickly as they can, sprinting down the hall with new guns and a bag of assorted ammunition that they leave a few feet behind them when they finally line up in front of the doors that lead to the outside world. They've propped the glass doors open but have barricaded the entrance with desks, bookcases, and chairs. The metal legs stick into the air like a booby trap of spikes, but of course they're not. They're just a minor obstacle in the way of the zombie swarm. Hopefully the positioning of the trucks (directly in front of the entrance, all but blocking their view of the outside world entirely), the solid placement of the desks and bookcases, and the bodies that are going to start rapidly piling up in front of the doors will be enough to keep the zombies at bay. If not, they're all screwed.

It's simple, but terrifying.

"This is it," Puck says, and he grits his teeth together like he's trying to keep himself from freaking out. Santana moves closer to the doors, leaves Puck and Rachel and Kurt behind, and Kurt goes to stand beside her. He's not sure _why _she's so gung-ho about this, but he likes the look in her eyes. It's the look that says no zombies are getting past her. It's actually sort of inspiring.

Back down the hallway, Puck and Rachel stand frozen to the spot.

"This is it," Rachel says, repeating Puck's earlier words with a hopeful smile.

"It could be," Puck says seriously, and she understands what he's too afraid to say outright.

"It won't. We'll do it. You saw how many we killed up there. And the others are still shooting. We're thinning them out."

"Yeah, but…fuck. How many are still out there?"

"I don't know, but it doesn't matter, Noah. We're not going to let them through."

She looks up at him and smiles, and Puck feels like maybe he can do this. Because Rachel's always optimistic about everything, sure, and this is probably no different, but it still makes him feel a little bit better. Rachel believes that they can do it. She believes it with her whole heart. This isn't like earlier when she was just pretending to be all smiles. This is for real. And maybe it's because she literally has no other choice but to believe that they can survive, but that doesn't make it any less inspiring.

He raises his gun and smiles at her as genuinely as he can manage.

"You're right. Let's go kick some zombie ass."

Rachel grins and hoists her own weapon into the air triumphantly. He almost rolls his eyes at the dramatics, but doesn't. Because, hell, it's kind of funny. And, what the hell? Why not?

"We need to seriously start thinking of a battle cry," Rachel says, and he doesn't refute it like he almost wants to. Because he's starting to realize that while he's the one getting everyone else through this rough patch (read: zombies), _she's _the one helping _him _through said rough patch. Her optimism, her infectious nature, and the fact that she's tough as shit, those are all the things that have kept him alive for this long, and he knows that those are the things that are going to keep him going long after his numbness has worn off and the fear has _really _set in.

They step up and squeeze between Santana and Kurt, their eyes trained on the doors in front of them. The sounds of gunfire from the floor above echo through the empty hallways, sending shivers up all of their spines. There is something utterly _real_ about this moment. The echoes, or the tension, or the increasingly less distant sounds of moaning from beyond the pile of debris that is their only defense against the horde. Upstairs, the sound of running feet can be heard. That means that enough zombies have neared the door that Coach Sylvester has given the order to send the majority of the students downstairs.

That means that this is really happening.

It's all echoes and echoes, and Puck can feel his brain whirring as he tries to comprehend just how empty that makes the world feel. Because every second that goes by, there is one less person in the world. Probably more. As the virus spreads, as the zombies grow in numbers and start their endless hunt for food, he is every second closer to his horrible, painful death.

He closes his eyes for a moment and pictures himself on the football field, in front of all those people cheering him on. He pictures Santana and Quinn on the sidelines, the gleeks in the bleachers, and Finn standing next to him barking out orders. Those were the days when he could be a hero just enough to satisfy his ego, but not enough to challenge himself. Those were the days when no one really depended on him for anything more vital than the fate of a football game.

Those were the days.

He opens his eyes and spots the zombie trying to climb over the bed of his truck. Before he can shoot it, Santana nails it between the eyes.

And with that, the tone has been set. Santana's grim determination spreads almost as quickly as the zombie virus, infecting even the newly-arriving reinforcements with a sense of ownership, of entitlement. These zombies can _fuck off_, as far as they're concerned. Where do they get off, trying to eat them? Where do they get off trying to take their lives from them? Their lives are _theirs_. As petty and pointless and superficial as they may have been up until now, they still deserve every precious moment of their lives to follow, and there's no way in hell they're going to let these little bastards take a single breath from any of them.

Puck looks at Rachel, Rachel looks at Puck. Quinn smiles at Finn, and Finn smiles back. Puck looks at Quinn's eyes, at Quinn's stomach, at Quinn's gun in Quinn's hand. Rachel looks at Finn's optimistic smile and the love in his eyes for the beautiful blonde girl wedged emotionally between them. Quinn looks down at her stomach, brushes her fingers over her shirt, and glances through her eyelashes at Puck's terror-stricken face. Finn looks at Rachel and his smile grows, becomes apologetic. Quinn looks at Rachel and holds out her hand, and Rachel squeezes her fingers. Kurt rolls his eyes and tells them all to stop being so fucking cheesy.

And then the wave breaks. The horde crashes like molasses against the side of the pickup truck, limbs scraping and dragging across the metal mindlessly. Fingers clamp on the edge of the bed with difficulty and pull the rest of the bodies up with them. Muscle memory repeats the pulling, the grabbing, the senseless clambering to get to the smell of sweet, throbbing human hearts, human blood.

The echoing hallways erupt with the sound of bullets, tearing through zombie flesh that was human only this morning, a few precious hours ago. Will, Puck, Rachel, Santana, and Coach Sylvester make up the first wave, and once their bullets run out they fall back and are immediately replaced by Kurt, Mercedes, Tina, Finn, and Brittany until they can reload. It's efficient and it's _working_. The pile by the door is quickly getting too high for the zombies to maneuver around. Quinn stands halfway down the hall, acting as a liaison between the downstairs shooters and the upstairs snipers. Emma keeps yelling down that the horde is slowing, as they're running out of places to go. Mike and Matt can be heard running from classroom to classroom above, sniping the zombies that try to approach from the side.

"They're slow moving," Puck says to Rachel when they're reloading. "Unless they catch the scent of blood. That sound right?"

"Of course. Yes. I thought we had already established this."

"Well did you notice they don't seem to be able to see anything? They keep squinting in the light. The ones that are walking from the right, you can barely see them through the windshield of my truck, but I'm pretty sure the reflection of the sun on the glass is throwing them off. Keep an eye out. Let me know what you think."

Rachel puffs up with pride at being asked to check his facts, and she returns to the front lines with a newfound sense of purpose. While shooting the zombies that are approaching from behind the truck beds, she keeps an eye on the windshield and determines that Puck was right. The zombies _are _reacting unfavorably to the sunlight, squinting against it and staggering to another place not quite so sunny.

Wonderful. Simply wonderful. So even the undead have a weakness.

The next time they retreat to reload, she looks up at him with an excited expression.

"You were right. Of course, there is the question of what we're supposed to do with this information."

"Okay, well let's think about this. Earlier when the sun wasn't so bright, they were moving fast. Now it's later, and brighter, and…"

"Now that you mention it, I _do _recall walking through quite a few shady areas when we were most aggressively pursued by zombies on the walk to your house."

"Yeah, right! Exactly. They don't like the sun. I remember my mom saying something about that disease you get from mosquitoes, and how it makes you sensitive to sunlight or, whatever."

"Encephalitis?"

"Maybe. I don't know, she saw it on Dateline or some shit. But if this is a virus, then maybe it makes sense. I mean, maybe it makes your zombie eyes sensitive to sunlight, right? That's possible, right?"

"You're asking _me_?"

"Okay, fine. It's _possible_. No question mark. So we should figure out a way to make it super bright near the front door, since that's our weak spot."

"What about the back and side doors?"

"No, dude, have you even _looked _at them? They're all metal with super thick glass and shit. Matt and Mike already took care of the rest."

"I'm sorry to interrupt your hair-braiding party, ladies, but there are zombies that need killing. Get your asses back to the front lines," Coach Sylvester barked as she retreated to reload her weapon.

"They're talking about the sunlight and how the zombies act around it," Santana says, turning back to Coach Sylvester with her trademark sneer. "And it's valid. Think about it. We need to get these zombies away from this entrance. As long as we're here, they're going to keep trying to get in. We need a spotlight. A giant spotlight shining on the door from the outside so that the zombies will back away from it."

Puck stares at Santana with a grin slowly spreading across his face.

"Damn. Now I remember why I dated you instead of delegating you to booty call action in the first place," he says admiringly. Rachel feels a twinge of envy that she hadn't been the one to think of the idea first. Of course, it lacks finesse, but it's infused with so much simple brilliance that it may just work. If they close the doors, park the cars at the right angle, and get a spotlight shining on the glass, then they have a shot at keeping the zombies away from their biggest weak spot.

"The only question is where we're going to get a spotlight," Rachel says as she rattles off a few shots at a zombie that has somehow managed to climb into the bed of the truck closest to the doors. The zombie falls down, its arm swinging crookedly over the edge with the momentum. Puck chuckles at it.

"That's easy," Quinn says from behind them. They all turn, momentarily forgetting the dwindling horde (it's easy, because the pile of bodies that has stacked up around the trucks is no longer easily surmountable, and the struggling zombies are being quickly picked off by the snipers upstairs, who have evidently moved to a better angle). Finding herself the unexpected center of attention, Quinn falters for a moment, self-consciously clutching her stomach, before continuing with, "In case of emergency blackouts like the ones we had last winter, Principal Figgins got the Cheerios some lights attached to generators. They're really energy efficient, apparently, and they're pretty bright. They also have different height settings so I think that if we lowered them all the way, then it would be perfect. We could put them outside, and they don't even need cords or anything, and they would shine right on the doors. We'd have to fill up the generators occasionally, but I think we can handle that."

Rachel's eyebrows climb her forehead and she smiles with surprised relief. _Of course_ the thing that would potentially save them in the end would be the surplus attention paid to the Cheerios. Figgins (God rest his probably-departed soul, and God smite his probably-undead body) has never been known to deny Sue Sylvester anything out of fear, and a surplus of unnecessary lights would not be out of character for Sue, who is now looking rather embarrassed that she didn't think of the lights, herself.

"All right," Will says, clapping his hands together to spur them into action. "Finn, Puck, go ahead and get the lights from the gym. Rachel, head upstairs and help the boys. Everyone else, keep watch here. I'm going to go with Finn and Puck and make sure they find everything okay."

He runs off after the boys with a noticeable bounce in his step, grinning all the way. Everyone turns to Coach Sylvester reflectively, expecting to watch the usual assortment of negative emotions flash across her face before she settles on one (the general prediction is _disgust_, this time) and spits out a comment that puts her nausea into words. Instead, they're surprised and disappointed to find her face devoid of all emotion.

Because only Sue understands that Will's bounce in his step is a direct result of the realization that he's not going to have to put a bullet in Emma's head.

And, hell, not even _she _can say anything to _that_. Not now.

Rachel takes of flouncing down the hallway and Quinn follows after her as quickly as her pregnancy waddle can take her. Sue reloads her weapon, digging through the bag to count the ammunition again. The only noise is the sharp report of gunfire from upstairs. To Sue, it's like a large coffee in the morning. She can almost _smell _it.

"Guys?" Brittany says tremulously from where she's standing near the door. She turns around, eyes narrowed, breathing labored, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. "Guys, I don't feel good."

And before anyone can do anything to help her, she falls to the floor.

* * *

Rachel is halfway up the stairs when she hears someone call her name. She turns, mindful of the direction in which she's pointing her automatic rifle (she's thinking of naming it, although she's stuck between Barbara and Judy at the moment), and almost slips on the step when she sees that it's Quinn behind her.

She had been hoping Finn, or Puck, or perhaps even Coach Sylvester (she _does _so love the compliments she receives, although she could honestly do without the fact that Coach Sylvester seems to need to mention her surprise at Rachel's propensity for physical violence given her "poofy" upbringing every time she throws a nugget of praise in her direction). Although she appreciates Quinn's company and even enjoys the other girl's newly-formed affection for her (borne out of trauma and insincerity, probably, but it's still heartwarming and she feels that it would make a great addition to the movie of her life), she still sort of hates being reminded of her pregnant belly all the time. She hates being reminded of the fact that Finn will never love her as much as he loves that fetus (and as much as he loves the girl carrying it, admittedly, although she likes to pretend most days that the baby is the only obstacle).

"Oh, yes?" she asks innocently, feeling guilty already. Quinn jogs quickly up the few steps that separate them and grabs onto Rachel's wrists, desperately. Her breathing is heavy and her eyes wide with frantic fear, Rachel notices, and she has a horrified recollection of the time her aunt went into labor while they were sitting around the dining room table at Thanksgiving.

"I need to tell you something," Quinn says, glancing back down the stairs to make sure that no one is coming.

"What is it? Are the desks not holding?" Rachel asks, starting to head valiantly in that direction, but Quinn's surprisingly strong grip pulls her back, pulls her close. Rachel finds herself in the awkward position of having her clenched fist pressed against Quinn's breast, but the other girl doesn't seem to notice. She's looking all wide-eyed and frantic, and Rachel has just about given in to prayer to ask God to _please_ keep the baby inside her stomach for another few months or so, at least until they're rescued by a team of competent doctors.

"It's not that. It's something else. I've realized that Santana was right, that _of course_ the zombie apocalypse isn't happening because I'm a horrible, horrible person."

"Right. Of course. That would be narcissistic and narrow-minded of you. Plus, I watched the news, and this has genetic testing written all over it."

"Okay, okay, I get it. But I'm not done. Just because this isn't God's way of smiting me down, it doesn't mean that I'm not a horrible person. And I'm _so _sorry."

"I know. You mentioned this to me already. Not that it's not amazing to hear, but…"

"You don't understand. You can't understand, because I'm not making sense, am I? Oh, God, Rachel. You could never understand what I've done. I have hurt _so _many people, and I'm never going to stop. I'm never going to stop because I can't, because I'm too scared to stop unless you can promise me that you won't hate me."

"Me? You want _me _to not hate you? Quinn…"

"You don't hate me, right? You don't _like _me, but you don't hate me. You're too nice for that. You're too forgiving, too optimistic, too…I don't even know, bright and shiny and all things happiness and light."

"As flattering as this all is, I _really _have to…"

She looks helplessly up the stairs, but Quinn pulls her wrists tighter, almost causing Rachel to lose her grip on her rifle entirely (Barbara. She thinks she'll name it Barbara).

"I can do anything as long as I know I'll have one person on my side. As long as I know someone will understand what I've done. And I _know _you will. You have to understand, because I think you would have done the same thing. We're in the same boat, you and I. We'll do anything to protect the people we love. Whether it's from zombies or from our past mistakes. Horrible, horrible mistakes."

"Of course, Quinn." Rachel feels her gaze soften as she looks at the red face of the beautiful girl in front of her. She has always thought that Quinn looks like an angel, which was always a bit of irony that she hated, but now it's comforting. "I've forgiven you for everything you've done."

Quinn nods, releases her hands, and Rachel smiles before resting her hand on Quinn's shoulder briefly. Now that she has stopped being afraid for her wrists and possibly her life, she can appreciate the enormity of this moment. Quinn Fabray asking her for forgiveness was something she never thought she'd see. Sure, she'd occasionally daydreamed about it, but she never thought it would have such an emotional impact. She would be tearing up if she wasn't so preoccupied with thoughts of killing zombies.

"I'm glad you came to me, Quinn," she says, and she's _really _not trying to sound lofty, but she thinks she might, a little. Not that she has anything to feel lofty _about_. After all, Quinn still has Finn, and Rachel has nothing except front-row seats to their sickening adorableness.

She turns to walk up the stairs, her eyes on the prize (in this case, the window at the end of the hall), her head held high and her mind on the point in the hopefully-near future when every zombie in a ten mile radius is rotting by the side of the road. Because they're going to make it through this horde. That much is obvious, now. The possibility of them failing is gone. The front entrance is blocked by a pile of bodies five men high and five men deep (they will start to smell soon, and Rachel knows they'll have to do something about that, but she's not looking forward to it), and all that's left is to pick off the stragglers. The worst is over, and hopefully after a quick run to the local gun shop or Coach Sylvester's house, they'll find enough ammunition to tide them over in case another seemingly insurmountable crowd appears.

They're all going to be fine, they're all going to survive, and nothing is going to keep them from sticking together and making it through this. And it's possibly selfish, but Rachel for once feels pretty happy. Okay, so the world is being overrun by zombies, and her parents are probably dead, but she's going to survive and do the best that she can, and she's going to kick ass at doing it.

She's feeling the first inklings of a smile across her face, but then Quinn pulls her back.

And Quinn's crying, and Quinn grabs Rachel's face in her hands.

And Quinn says, "Puck's the father."


	9. The Unbearable Lightness of Brittany

Apparently the more regular source of inspiration that I needed was having _Glee _back every week! Also, I was quite excited when they had Artie's line about wanting to get down on one knee since I had him think something like that in chapter 6. It sort of made my night because apparently I'm psychic.

* * *

Chapter 9 - The Unbearable Lightness of Brittany

Kurt rounds the corner at a dead run, a cry for help already forming on his lips, when he sees Rachel and Quinn standing together on the stairs. Rachel has her arms around Quinn's sobbing frame, her eyes wide and confused as she stares down the hall at nothing. Quinn is saying something, sobbing something, but Kurt has no fucking clue what it is, and he really isn't in the mood to find out. Quinn's pregnancy hormones are getting all messed up by her adrenaline and fear, and that's all making one crazy baby mama whose drama he doesn't have time for at the moment.

"Rachel," he says with none of the gentleness that was _supposed_ to come out with it. Quinn straightens abruptly, looking down at him with a surprising amount of rage.

"What is it?" Rachel asks enthusiastically, obviously chomping at the bit to get away from whatever Quinn's trying to tell her.

"Brittany collapsed. She's sick or something. And Santana's freaking out."

Rachel sighs, and it's hard to tell if it's with relief that it's not as bad as, say, the doors failing to hold and an assload of zombies pouring in, or if it's with frustration that yet another thing has managed to go wrong.

"Okay," she says, managing to pry away from Quinn just enough to speak without gasping for air. "We need to get her upstairs with the mattresses. You moved them while Noah and Mr. Schuester and I were gone, right?"

"Of course," Kurt replies, happy to take backseat for this particular crisis. "I'll get Mike and Matt?"

"No, I want them upstairs to deal with the stragglers. Quinn, could you do me a favor and go see how many zombies are still outside? I wouldn't expect the number to be very high, judging from the fact that I'm only hearing half as many gunshots as I was before, but it's important that I have an idea of how many are left."

"You won't…you won't say anything, will you?" Quinn asks, mindful of Kurt's presence.

"No," Rachel replies, her steely tone seeming to cause Quinn some comfort despite being almost spine-chilling in its coldness. Quinn hurries up the stairs, holding onto her stomach and wiping her eyes with a visible new resolve. Rachel moves down to stand beside Kurt, watching Quinn go with a bewildered expression on her face.

"Is everything okay?" Kurt asks. Rachel exhales a chuckle that sounds forced.

"Not even close," she says. And that's how Kurt knows that _shit just got real_, because if Rachel isn't willing to pretend that everything is all angels and sunshine, then something very seriously wrong just happened. Kurt is torn between a desire to _know_ and the knowledge that they really don't have time for this.

He settles with the knowledge, and he and Rachel proceed together to where Coach Sylvester is standing over Brittany and Santana. Mercedes and Tina hover awkwardly against the wall while Jacob stands planted firmly behind Coach Sylvester, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

"What's wrong with her?" Rachel asks, affecting an air of superiority even though her expertise revolves around the shooting of zombies, not the assessment of medical ailments.

"I don't know. She just _fell_," Santana says nervously. "She's totally knocked out. And she's bleeding."

"Was she bitten?" Rachel asks; the question that Kurt wanted to ask from the beginning but was too afraid to. And with good reason, it seems, because Santana leaps to her feet angrily.

"No. And don't you _dare _try to kill her to save your ass."

"I'm not suggesting…"

"Oh, I know _exactly _what you were going to suggest. You'd do anything to survive, you and Puck. Don't think I don't know it. And when you talk to Puck about this, he's going to suggest that we _make sure_ by locking Brit away in some room and leave her to suffer until we can be sure it's actually an illness and not the zombie fucking virus or whatever. And that's not going to happen, okay? You can forget it. If she's going to turn into one of them, she's going to do it without ever knowing it's happening. She deserves better than that."

"I'm sorry. I…"

Rachel trails off, possibly because she knows that Santana has a point. It's all well and good to talk about Survival At All Costs and doing things that mean the detriment of other people, but that only lasts until you have to stare that Cost in the face and deal with it. And in this case, it's a girl. A young, sick, vulnerable girl.

"So are you going to help me or what?" Santana asks, recognizing Rachel's inner turmoil for what it is. Rachel nods, decisively.

"Yes. You're right. We can't assume. Would you at least concede that we need to keep a careful eye on her?"

"As long as the person keeping an eye on her is me and not you or Puck, fine," Santana says. Rachel nods, sticking her chin back into the air as if she'd never experienced self-doubt in her life, especially not in the past few minutes. She steps forward with Santana and helps lift Brittany into the air.

"We'll keep her apart from the others for now," Rachel says gently. "If this is more than just stress, if this is contagious, like…the flu? Then we don't want it spreading."

She doesn't say _we also don't want her becoming reanimated in the night when everyone's sleeping_, but it's implied in her inability to think of anything else that it could be other than this zombie virus. Santana nods.

"Fine," she says. "But I'm staying with her."

And no one has the heart to argue.

* * *

Quinn stands at the window, one hand braced against the frame and one hand cupping her stomach as she stares at the carnage below. She's already vomited out the window – an action that elicited good-natured cheers from Mike and Matt and Artie down the hall, who saw it from their own windows that were far enough away to keep it from being gross.

In all honesty, though, the vomit was more a reaction to her finicky fetus than it was to the sight. Because Quinn, as morbid as it is, is fiercely proud of the fact that the parking lot is carpeted with corpses. Because she _helped_ cause this carnage. She put bullets in those bodies, and she watched them fall. The fact that they used to be people is weighing less heavily on her heart than she would have expected. Because the past tense is operative, in this case. They aren't people anymore. And if she's going to save her child, then she's going to do it by making sure that all threats are eliminated.

She didn't want this baby yesterday, but now it's the only thing she has left. Because it's only a matter of time before Finn finds out, now that she has told Rachel. She knows that. She knew that even when she was saying those words. Because this isn't the time for keeping secrets. This is the time for airing truths. And Rachel will do what Quinn doesn't have the courage to do. She will make everything right.

She's a coward and she knows it, but it's the only way she knows how to live.

Her eyes sweep the area below and see no movement except for the light rustling of blood-matted hair in the breeze. In the distance, she sees a zombie trip over a curb and go sprawling, but it's far enough away that it doesn't even seem like a threat. She laughs before she can stop herself, watching it try to struggle to its feet on one full leg and one half-eaten one. She laughs until her cheeks are turning red and tears are spilling out of her eyes. She laughs until it's not laughter anymore.

* * *

Emma stands over Brittany as Rachel and Santana lay her down on one of the mattresses and draw a newly-purchased blanket from Target over her.

"Oh dear, this doesn't look good," Emma murmurs. Santana shoots her a glare that's full of such homicidal longing that Emma finds herself taking an involuntary step backwards.

"Brittany's going to be fine," Rachel says perkily. "I'm sure it's just the stress, the fear, you know. It's a hard time for all of us."

"Exactly," Santana replies fiercely, looking Emma up and down as if daring her to speak again. Emma doesn't. And she thinks it's probably time to leave before she gets murdered.

She walks out of the room and down the stairs, dimly aware of the sound of sneakered feet following her. She's sure that it's Rachel because the peppiness of the footfalls is too excessive to be anyone but, and she doesn't want to talk to Rachel right now. She only wants to talk to Will, really, so that's why she finds herself heading in the direction of the gym.

To her chagrin, Rachel follows her.

She stops and turns around to see if Rachel wants her attention, but Rachel stalks past her with barely a glance of recognition. Emma is surprised, and admittedly intrigued, and admittedly relieved. She sees the same look of fury on Rachel's face that was on Santana's earlier, and Emma already feels as if she's been on the receiving end of that expression one too many times today. These girls are like a minefield of horror ready to blow Emma to pieces.

She follows to the gym at a cautious distance, surprised when Rachel stops in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. Will and Puck and Finn are trying to figure out how to adjust the settings on the lights they've dragged out of the storage closet, but Finn looks up and notices Rachel almost right away. Emma thinks not for the first time that it's truly incredible how psychic the hormones of teenagers can be.

"Rachel, hey!" Finn exclaims, straightening quickly and taking a faltering half-step towards her before stopping, presumably remembering that he has a girlfriend with a baby on the way.

"Hi, Finn. Noah, can I talk to you for a second?"

Puck looks up, surprised, like he hadn't even considered the fact that Rachel might want to talk to him. Emma's a little surprised too, admittedly, because she was _sure _that Rachel's attraction was to Finn and not Puck. Although it's not as if attraction to Puck could possibly be considered _surprising_.

"What, now? I'm a little busy."

"It's pretty essential, yes."

Her tone is just cold enough that everyone in earshot immediately knows she means business. Emma assumes that it has to do with Brittany being ill, but something about her coldness seems odd, different from what Emma would expect. She's curious, but not curious enough to continue following them once they leave the room together. She walks inside to talk to Will instead; to tell he and Finn about Brittany and ask them what they should do.

* * *

Rachel leads Puck into the nurse's office and closes the door behind them, leaning against it as he takes a seat at the desk, like he knows she's here for something more serious than just an update.

But of course, he doesn't.

"Why'd you want to get me alone? Are we about to have sex or something, because dude, the whole 'getting caught' fantasy is only sexy if you don't have to stay locked in a building with that person afterwards for, like, forever."

"No, Noah. I just talked to Quinn."

And instantly, Puck freezes. It's as if someone just hit a pause button on his life, drained all energy from him. He is completely and utterly still.

This is what he was afraid of. Well, not _this_, specifically, with Rachel confronting him about it in the nurse's office, but the whole idea of people finding out in general. And now that it's the freaking zombie apocalypse, he thinks it's a little more frightening than normal. Finn's kind of an idiot, and Finn has a gun, and Finn loves Quinn more than he loves life itself. He's pretty sure that makes a terrible combination, especially if he wants to hold on to his life (and despite the fact that he complains about his life pretty much 24/7, he kind of likes it, and he _does_ want to hold onto it as long as is humanly possible). Add Finn and a gun and a gut-wrenching betrayal together, and you _don't _get Puck surviving. It's math.

"I can explain," he says quickly, even though he can't.

"You don't have to. It's your business, Noah. I have no right to comment on it."

"Uh, I guess. But since when has that stopped you? Aren't you, like…pissed?"

"Oh, I'm _livid_ that you and Quinn would deem it acceptable to hide something like this from Finn. Were the world not overrun with zombies, I would _insist_ that you inform him. But the world _is _overrun with zombies, and at the moment that's the only thing that should be keeping our attention. So I want to make it very clear that if you tell Finn and cause problems for the group, I will kill you myself."

"Hold on. I'm confused. Can you, like, say something that makes sense? You took me in here because you _want_ me to keep letting Finn think he's the father?"

"Finn's entire existence right now is characterized by his protection of Quinn and the child in her womb. If he knew that it wasn't actually _his _child, that the girl he loves had betrayed him, and that his best friend is really the father, it would unhinge him in a way that I don't even want to speculate on. You absolutely cannot allow this to happen."

"You're not going to tell him? But I thought this would be your _crowning moment_ or whatever. Isn't this, like, what you've been waiting for? A chance to get Finn so pissed at Quinn that he takes you for his very own or…whatever?"

"Like I said, things have changed. If this were any other school day, I would most certainly inform Finn because Quinn's deception would have been potentially ruining his future. It would have been detrimental to his goals, to his life. Telling him would have improved his life in the long run, although certainly it would have hurt him in the short term. Now, right now, if I told him about this betrayal, it would crush him. It would make the long term nonexistent."

"What, like he'd kill himself?"

"He'd kill _you_ first, probably, but yes. Essentially, I believe he would be less inclined to care about his survival."

"Why are we even talking about this? I wouldn't have told him on my own."

"Yes you would have," Rachel says with a small chuckle. "I'm _still _worried that you're going to spill the beans, so to speak."

"What? Come on, why would I do that?"

"Quinn broke down and told me everything because she felt so guilty for wronging the boy she loves, and she told me because she believed that I would understand. And I _do_. What you and Quinn did, it was not willful. It was not manipulative. It was a spur of the moment passion that happened to have unexpected consequences. I understand why she would try to hide it. She was right. She said I'd have done the same thing, and I would have. If I was in a position to lose the boy I loved, I would have done anything to avoid it, including lie to him about the child's father. And you, you treasure Finn's friendship and love him just as much as Quinn and I do. And I know that you feel guilty, as much as you try to hide it. That was why you asked me out, wasn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Puck asks, because he is too shocked, too freaked out to even think about answering.

"You asked me out because you thought that it would fix something in your own twisted way. You thought that if you could take care of me the way that Finn was taking care of Quinn, the girl you _really_ liked…"

"No, hold on…"

"…Then maybe you could achieve some kind of forgiveness."

"_No_, look. You're getting this all wrong."

"Well then tell me, Noah. I'm honestly interested."

And the fucked up thing is, Puck can tell that she actually _is_. She's _totally _interested in what he has to say. And that sort of takes the pressure away. It's easier to be honest when you know the person actually _wants_ you to be honest, and isn't just saying that but really expecting you to lie (like whenever Santana used to ask if she looked fat in a certain pair of jeans. Even if she _did_, she didn't want to hear about it, even once he'd explained that it was totally the jeans' fault and not hers).

"Fine. Look, I asked you out because I knew Finn sort of liked you. And I wanted to take care of my kid, you know? But I couldn't, because Quinn wouldn't let me, and I felt so fucking guilty because that _kid_, that little girl, she's _mine_, but Finn was doing all the work and…and, I don't know, it seemed like you sort of got shafted too, because if Quinn had given me what I wanted, then _you_ would probably be getting what you wanted, and it sort of made sense. And I think that's why I had this dream about you, and you were climbing in the window and looking all, like, angelic and shit. I don't know, I guess it seemed like there was a _reason_, you know? Like a big, divine _reason _for us to get together. It's stupid."

"It's not. Don't you see? It's not. I don't want to say _fate_, because I don't know if I even _believe_ in fate, but just look at everything. If you hadn't asked me out, you never would have been to my house. You never would have changed your running route so you would jog by me every morning."

"What? No way, I totally didn't…" Puck starts, but he stops his protest when he sees that Rachel is looking at him with an amused expression. He sighs. "Okay, fine. Whatever."

"I'm not mocking you, Noah. I understand why you like to run by our houses every morning. It makes you feel like part of the club, and there's no shame in that. I'm just saying that you would not have been running by my house this morning had you never learned where I lived. And, of course, maybe you would have survived your encounter with the running zombie. You may have made it back to your house, you may have even made it to the school. And maybe I would have done the same, but odds suggest that I would not have. And odds suggest that we both would be dead. But we're _not_. We're not dead, because we found each other, because you had a dream that persuaded you to ask me out, because you impregnated Quinn and you wanted to do the right thing and take care of the baby. It's all connected. Our survival is connected. I think it's beautiful, even if it was born of deception."

"This sort of isn't the way I pictured you reacting," Puck says quietly, sure that she's going to flip her shit any second and reveal that she was just fucking with him and is actually just stalling so that someone can inform Finn and he can get a shotgun ready.

"Noah, I care about you. It's surprising and unexpected, but it's true. And after what you did for me, first giving up football and then arming me with the confidence and tools that I need to survive today, I understood that you were not the boy I believed you to be. There are depths to you that I believe no one has discovered, and most recently uncovered is that you are the ideal survival partner."

She smiles at him hopefully and he smiles back, because he sort of feels the same way about her. He doesn't say that, though, because he's not really sure how he would.

"Thank you for not telling him," he says finally, sincerely.

"Everyone needs something to live for, Noah," Rachel says quietly, leaning against the desk beside him and looking down with half-lidded eyes. "Finn needs Quinn, and Finn needs that child."

"What do you need?"

"I need…" Rachel trails off and thinks of Quinn's tear-stained face, of Kurt's nervously dancing eyeballs, of Santana's steely devotion and Mr. Schuester's wavering gaze directed in Miss Pillsbury's direction. She imagines Tina's hand clenched in Artie's, imagines Mike's mournful stare directed out the window, imagines Mercedes staring down at her phone. Imagines the way Puck's face had fallen when he saw that his mother and sister had left him behind to die. "I need a flock," she says seriously. "I need people who count on me. I need to help, to lead, to support people. I need you and Quinn and Kurt and everyone. I've never been able to just live for myself, and I think it's rather unsurprising that I've turned that into a reason to live. I need an audience. I always have. My fathers always said that I only cried when someone else was in the house with us as a baby because I wanted to wow visitors with my impressive vocals. It's only gotten worse since then."

"I guess that makes sense. What about me? What do I live for?"

Rachel laughs and says, "Noah, that's easy. You need to live to prove to yourself that you deserve to."

And it's so accurate, so chilling, so _true_, that Puck has nothing to say for several moments.

Rachel bends down and hugs him, her arms tight around his neck, like she's trying to squeeze life into him.

"Guilt is a luxury, Noah," she says quietly against his ear, hot air tickling his lobe. "Please don't indulge in it."

And before he can reply, she walks out of the room and closes the door behind her.

* * *

Artie is around seventy percent sure that Brit is slowly turning into a zombie. But he's also one hundred percent sure that Santana will kill him if he so much as looks at Brittney the wrong way, so he's torn. On the one hand, he doesn't want Brittany's reanimated corpse to chew his face off, but on the other hand, he really doesn't want Santana to shoot his face off either. It's tough.

"When did she even have the time to get bitten?" Matt asks, his voice practically a whisper. They're all the way at the other end of the hallway from Brittany and Santana, but he's still a little afraid that Santana will overhear him and come storming down the hall to murder him in cold blood.

"Dude, since when is Brittany a lesbian, that's what I want to know," Mike says with a marked amount of disappointment.

"I hardly think that's the most relevant thing to be focused on at the moment," Kurt says. "If she was bitten, she's going to turn into a zombie, and that's going to be very difficult for Santana to deal with."

"She's going to kill us all," Mercedes insists.

"I second that motion. We need Rachel to protect us," Jacob insists. Artie sighs.

"Santana's probably just going to kill every zombie in a ten mile radius," he says. "Brittany got bitten before she even came here. Santana knows it's not our faults."

He _hopes_. He looks down at Tina, who is curled in his lap like a housecat, and tries not to be totally obvious about swallowing the lump that's rising in his throat.

"What are we supposed to do about it?" Kurt wonders. "I'm not one to advocate for quarantine, but keeping her in a room where she can easily break through if she turns…it seems an unnecessary risk."

"I'm sure she's fine. Like Rachel said, it's probably just stress," Tina offers hopefully.

"Rachel only said that because she knew it was the only way to keep Santana on remotely level ground," Kurt argues.

"Maybe, but…"

"No, you didn't see her face. It was Rachel Berry at her most haunted, trust me. Miss Diva was just putting her acting chops to good use. And good thing, because otherwise there would have been a bullet-shaped hole in her head."

"Santana wouldn't kill anyone," Matt says, but Artie thinks Kurt might have a point. He always thought Santana was capable of _anything_, like she was a superpowered version of a teenage girl. And, of course (although he'd never admit it to Tina in a million years), he'd entertained brief fantasies about her in the place of Claire Bennett from _Heroes_ as the invincible, superhero cheerleader. It was impossible not to. She was tough, she was ballsy, and she was beautiful. Factor in the possibly-infected girlfriend and a practically endless supply of firearms, and she's also pretty fucking scary.

Capable of murder? Possibly. Artie knows that if something ever happened to Tina, he'd be mad enough to kill. And Santana is without most of the morals that would hold Artie back.

"We're all royally screwed, aren't we?" he asks quietly. And there is a gradual murmur of agreement.

"Wait a second," Tina says suddenly. "Where's Coach Sylvester?"

* * *

Sue is standing in the gym with Will and Emma and Finn, trying not to think about the fact that one of her Cheerios is out of commission.

"I just think that we should talk about it," Will insists, but Sue cuts him off savagely.

"Well I think that I should take off and leave you utter disappointments behind to rot in your own terrified filth, but let's have a little compromise. We don't talk about it, and I don't leave you and take my guns with me!"

"Sue, this is serious."

"So am I."

"Mr. Schue, I think we should probably just drop it," Finn says, looking warily at the expression on Sue's face, which is something like a cross between how Rachel looked at him that one time when he kissed her to get her back into glee and how Quinn looked that one time he told her that it didn't matter if she was fat because he'd think she was beautiful even if she was totally ugly.

"Brittany is injured. She's sick. We need to talk about what happens if she doesn't recover," Emma says gently.

"We _need_ to talk about how the smell of that product is attracting the horde," Sue replies through clenched teeth.

Will knows that this is her default setting; attacking his hair (seriously, it's not like he uses _that_ much product!) and acting like their fight actually means something. Like it means more than the scared girls sitting upstairs, waiting to see if one of them is going to turn into the monsters they've been fighting all day.

"Sue…"

"William, I won't say it again. I will discuss this if and when Brittany turns, and not a moment before. Clear? Or do you need to clean some of that excess gel out of your ears before you can get it through your…"

"Sue!"

And to everyone's surprise, Sue just stops. She stops raging, stops glaring, stops looking at him like his hair is housing rats and lice and homeless people. She stops moving entirely, stares at him, and says, "It's my fault, you know."

Will knows that this is the closest that Sue Sylvester has probably ever come to breaking down and sobbing openly. Finn, although he doesn't know it directly, senses it like an animal will sense approaching rain or the end of the world (like his cat, which ran away yesterday and didn't come back). He surreptitiously slides behind Will for protection.

And Will _really _doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to keep this conversation going. He's actually terrified of what this will reveal. But he can hardly _say _any of that now, so he just swallows his intense, raging fear and asks, "_What _is your fault, Sue?"

He's half expecting her to say that the whole zombie thing is her fault (it wouldn't exactly be _unlikely_), but she looks up at the ceiling and he knows that she's talking about Brittany.

"I took her…somewhere. She was the first one on my route to the school, and I had to go see this _someone_. Had to go see if she was all right. And so I left Britt outside in the car, told her to wait there. But of course, her basic mental functions are akin to that of a lab rat with brain tumors, so she went off and chased something sparkly into the woods. By the time I went inside and found…well, found a lot of dead bodies and some roaming free, by the time I got back out, she was hollering about a man in the woods trying to bite her. I never thought she'd actually been bitten. I even _told_ her that if she got bit she could kiss her ass goodbye because I'd blow her freaking head off."

"Oh, God," Will groans, running his fingers through his hair.

"And she said she was fine. And I was so distracted by the fact that I'd just bashed my undead sister's brains in that I failed to notice the signs. The fact that she didn't take off her sweatshirt, not once, even though I always keep my truck cab at a sweltering eighty-five degrees so I can save time and money on going to the sauna. The fact that she kept itching at that cut and Santana kept bitching at her about it. The fact that she spent the rest of the day avoiding me like a wounded dog. I should have noticed."

"Well what could you have done, even if you had?" Will asks. "Killed her?"

"That's a question we ought to be asking ourselves right now, William," Sue says, and Will and Finn and Emma all experience a simultaneous chill down their spines. For the first time since they've known her, Sue is completely _serious_.

* * *

Santana hears Brittany shifting around on the mattress and she turns with her pistol held casually in her hand. She doesn't want to scare Brittany, but she doesn't want to die, either. If Brittany is a zombie, Santana knows what she has to do.

But Brittany isn't a zombie. Not yet. She sits up, looking green in the face, and vomits into the basin that Rachel retrieved from the nurse's office. Rachel and Puck tense up on the other side of the room where they're talking in low voices, and Kurt scampers out of the room without so much as a goodbye, slamming the door behind him. Santana ignores them and kneels beside Brittany, putting her gun aside.

"Hey, sweetie," she says endearingly. She's never called Brittany anything like that before, but when Brittany's face lights up she immediately resolves to call her _baby _or _sweetheart_ or _pumpkinface cupcake heart_ for the rest of their lives.

"San, I'm not feeling too good," Brittany says, looking at Santana seriously. And Santana immediately knows what Brittany is saying, but she refuses to hear it. She refuses to _listen _to what that look is trying to tell her. She just smiles warmly and puts her hand out to rest against Brittany's forehead. Brittany leans into the touch like a kitten might, and whispers, "Your hands are cold. It feels nice."

Santana's hands aren't cold. Brittany's forehead is blazing. Santana chokes back a stream of cursewords or tears or whatever, and forces a smile for Brittany's benefit, pulling her hand away from Brittany's face and clenching it into a fist at her side.

"You're fine," she lies, because now she knows the truth. She knows that Brittany was bitten, that she's been hiding that secret in hopes that she would somehow be okay. And she's not _going _to be okay, but Santana can't let her know that. She clears her throat. "They were wrong about the bites, you know. We figured it out. It's, uh…"

"It's in the water," Rachel puts in from the corner, standing up and slowly crossing the room with Puck on her tail. Santana smiles a little, grateful for Rachel's sincerity.

"Yeah. Rachel's right. It's in the water. It's all kinds of fucked up. But since you have a filter at home, you're fine." Santana forces a smile that feels like it's sliding off her face.

"I brushed my teeth this morning in the sink upstairs. It doesn't have a filter," Brittany says nervously.

"Oh, no, that's fine," Puck insists. "It's only a certain amount. Like, a gallon or something."

"Why do so many people drink tap water?" Brittany wonders aloud.

"Because they're not as smart as you," Santana says seriously. It would have been a joke yesterday, or sarcasm, or irony, but it's not anymore.

"I got bit, you know," Brittany whispers. She pulls up her sleeve so everyone can see the gaping wound near her elbow. It's infected, anyone can see that, and it smells like death itself. But Brittany can't see it from that angle, so Santana doesn't let her smile waver.

Puck puts his hands on Rachel's shoulders to steady himself, Rachel closes her eyes and bites her lip to keep from crying, and for some reason that sets Santana off, too. Probably her competitive nature coming out. _No one_ is going to cry over her dying girlfriend more than she is.

"Yeah, sweetie. I figured," she whispers, tears prickling the back of her throat.

"I couldn't help it. I was so bored in Coach's car. She was taking forever. And there were flowers in this field and…"

_And I wanted to pick them for you_, she's about to say, and Santana knows it. But she cuts Brittany off. She can't bear it. If she hears that, she'll lose it. She'll lose it forever.

"It's okay. No one's mad. You're just tired, that's all. Just a little stressed. And that's okay. No one's mad at you. They're making lunch for you, downstairs so you can get your strength up. Your favorite foods."

Rachel turns around into Puck's waiting arms, crying silently into his white t-shirt so Brittany can't hear. Puck rests his head on her shoulder and looks down at the ground, and Santana can tell from the set of his shoulders that he's trying really hard not to cry, too. It's just like that time his dad wrote him that letter when they were dating. Now she feels bad that she zoned out when he was reading it, and never understood why he wanted a hug afterwards.

"Is it tacos? You know I really like tacos," Brittany says with a wistful smile, and Santana and Puck both laugh a little.

"Tacos are awesome," Puck agrees, and he somehow makes it sound like the most profound statement ever, and he somehow makes it seem like he's not tearing up a little too. Brittany nods sagely.

"Totally," she agrees. Santana reaches out and pushes one sweat-drenched lock of hair out of her eyes.

"Good. Because that's exactly what you're getting. And we found some chocolate cupcakes. Your favorite, right?"

"With rainbow sprinkles?"

"With rainbow sprinkles."

"Awesome," Brittany says. She looks sick for a minute and swallows thickly. "Maybe not until after I take a nap, okay? I don't want to puke it up."

"Are you sure? Rainbow sprinkles look pretty cool in puke. Remember that time we got really drunk at Puck's party?"

"Oh, yeah," Brittany says with a weak attempt at a laugh that possibly breaks Santana's heart _physically _in two. She swallows a sob and clasps Brittany's hand in her own.

"You know, when you feel better we should really start talking about this whole dating thing."

"You wanna? I'd date you in a second," Brittany sighs dreamily, closing her eyes. "You're the prettiest person ever, San. And you're so nice to me."

But Santana _isn't_. She _isn't_ nice to Brittany, and the thought makes her see red. Literal, blinding red. Why couldn't she have been nicer? Why couldn't she have treated Brittany better? Why couldn't she have just given up the whole charade of pretending she was straight so her parents wouldn't freak out? Why couldn't she be as brave as Brittany, whose naivety had led to a noble 'I will love who I want to love' stance that you couldn't help but respect. But Santana had always been about making guys hot, and using Brittany to do it.

And now she'll never get the second chances she needs to make it right, to make Brittany understand just how much she cares about her. It's all over now. Brittany's dying, and there's nothing she can do about it. There's nothing she can say that will _really_ fix it. She has failed Brittany too many times for that to ever happen.

All she can do was sit and wait for it to end.

* * *

Quinn stands motionless as Finn approaches her in the hallway. She wonders if Rachel has told him yet.

She's torn between wanting it out there and wanting Finn to herself, to comfort and hold and take care of when he needs to cry. She wants that sensation of being loved, for just a little longer. But at the same time, the guilt is tearing her heart in two. She wants to talk to Rachel, wants to know what Rachel has decided to do, but Rachel is busy attending to more important matters, and Quinn is forced to understand and sympathize. And she does. She _does_. She just wishes that she didn't have to. She wishes that she could go back to when she was the center of her own universe, because that was so much _easier _than caring.

"Hey," Finn says with a bright smile, and Quinn feels the tension leaking from her muscles. She feels relief, she feels guilt, and most of all she feels confusion. And a fondness for Rachel that she didn't know was possible to feel. There was _tolerating_ Rachel, which was easy, but this is different. This is so, so much better.

"Hi," she breathes, scarcely believing she can still smile at him and get away with it. "Finn, what's going on with Brittany? Coach Sylvester and Mr. Schuester…that's what they're talking about, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Finn sighs.

"And? What'd they decide?"

Finn tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear where it's come loose from her hastily-constructed ponytail.

"I don't know. They went all quiet and told me to leave. Grown up stuff, they said."

"Grown up stuff? That's ridiculous," Quinn snorts, actually feeling a little offended for Finn.

"I don't know. I didn't really want to be there anyway. Coach Sylvester scares me. I think you were right. I think she can actually _sense _fear."

Quinn remembers telling him that once, and she smiles at the memory. Any memory before seven AM is now a good one. Even last night, even when she was miserable about her bladder's inability to let her sleep for more than an hour and Finn's elbow digging into her fetus's face, even _that_ seems like the best night ever. And she clings to it. And she looks _forward_ to it, because tonight she will be lying down on a mattress with him. And that will make everything seem okay for just a little while.

"I'll go talk to her," she says, sticking her chin in the air in a way which reminds him instantly of Rachel, although he would never say it (he learned the hard way what happens when someone compares her to Rachel, and he has the fading remnants of a bruised rib to prove it).

"Are you sure? Because she's totally in scary mode. Being all serious and everything. Actually, I'd say not to go. She's freaking me out, and I think that talking to her like she is right now might make the baby born afraid of everything."

"Finn, if this baby is ever born, then it's going to have every reason to be afraid of everything," Quinn says. She stands up on her toes and presses her lips against his roughly. "Zombies may have nothing on Sue Sylvester, but Sue Sylvester has nothing on these hormones."

She smiles one more time and then turns and walks down the hall as gracefully as she can manage.

* * *

"I'm telling you, no," Will says, crossing his arms over his chest and standing in the way of the gym doors. "We're not killing that innocent girl."

"Her innocence is inconsequential, William. She's going to kill all of us if we don't get rid of her. Who knows _how_ this virus is spread. It could be airborne. It could be transferred through saliva, and God only knows that if she can somehow get Brittany to brush the vomit and blood out of her teeth, Santana will be eagerly sucking her face within minutes and then will probably go on to infect every boy and girl in this school except possibly Jacob, and he hardly counts as human. It's survival, William."

"Sue, I know you don't mean this. You're just scared."

"Scared? Being the coach of a bunch of adolescent timebombs with synchronized cycles and a monthly case of the weepies is _scary_. Facing down death in the Amazonian jungle with nothing but a bandana and a machete is _scary_. Killing a girl who may very well spell the doom of myself and my remaining squad…"

"Santana?" Emma pipes up. "Because you fired Quinn."

"Admittedly, it's mostly myself I'm concerned for, but you get the picture."

"I get it, but it's not happening," Will says. He hears the door creak open behind him and he turns with annoyance etched on his features. "Finn, the cafeteria is…" He stops when he sees Quinn standing there, one hand cupped under her stomach. "Quinn."

He feels the same twisted sensation in his gut that he always feels when he sees her. When he thinks about the fact that the baby in her belly would have belonged to him if things had gone a little differently. It's hard to look at her, sometimes.

"I heard you're discussing Brittany," Quinn says. "She's my friend, and I want to hear this."

"Sue's trying to exterminate the threat," Emma says in her best guidance counselor voice. "Will is being very brave and refusing to allow her to consider it."

"You're not going to kill her," Quinn says tightly, closing the door behind her and standing beside Will. "You can't. She's one of your squad, and you always say 'don't turn your back on your team unless they're in your way for a promotion'."

"I consider continuing to live to see another day a promotion," Sue says darkly. "I also consider killing her a mercy. We don't know what the virus does to a person before they're turned. We don't know how much pain she's in."

It's strange, Will thinks, because she said that last part in the same even tone that she was using for the majority of the conversation, but it's different. This is Sue thinking about Brittany. Not about herself or her chances of survival. Somewhere beneath that rock hard façade is a slow crumbling of defenses, and she's just inadvertently laid down one of her cards. She's still holding most of them, but getting into her head a little bit is rewarding.

So she _isn't_ emotionless, impassive, cold beyond reason. And he knows what he has to say.

"What happened to your sister?" he asks quietly.

"Excuse me?" Her tone suggests that this was a bad idea, but he keeps going. It's too late to back down, and he's pretty sure that Quinn won't let Sue kill him.

"Your sister. You mentioned her before, when you were talking about how Brittany got attacked. You said you killed your sister."

"That wasn't Jeany anymore. She'd turned into one of them."

"You have a sister?" Emma asks with the sickening concern that Sue hates about her on most days.

"Had," Sue growls darkly.

"And how would you react if somebody was trying to kill her?" Will says tentatively. Sue stops pacing and stares at him, her eyes softening just enough that he feels growing confidence. Quinn grabs his arm with excitement, sensing the same emotional shift.

"Especially if there was a chance that she could make it," she intones. "That she could pull through. I mean, we don't know if there's a cure! We don't know if there's any way to…"

"You're right," Sue says lowly. "Thank you, Q. William. This has really put things into perspective."

Will and Quinn smile at one another radiantly, but Sue pushes past them and out into the hallway.

"Oh, dear," Emma sighs, chasing after her. Quinn and Will follow, identically confused expressions on their faces.

"Sue!" Will yells.

"I'd never let Jean suffer like this," Sue growls under her breath, but it echoes down the hall, echoes through the building loud and damning.

* * *

Rachel and Puck are standing guard outside Brittany's room, watching through the crack in the door as Santana continues to wear her bravest of brave faces for Brittany. They wanted some alone time, which is probably for the best. Rachel and Puck weren't exactly helping to sell the illusion that everything is going to be fine.

"I have no idea what to do," Rachel murmurs helplessly as she pulls the door closed and leans against it for support. She feels so weak, physically and emotionally, and it's difficult to imagine ever feeling as powerful as she did less than an hour ago. Things have changed _irreversibly _since then.

"There's nothing we _can _do," Puck points out, leaning next to her and watching the way she stares at nothing.

"I mean about anything. Not about Brittany, or Santana, or Quinn, or you, or Finn, or…anyone. We're all going to lose our minds here, Noah. All these secrets, and these emotions, and these horrors outside our window…we're too young for this."

"I think even Coach Sylvester's too young for this," Puck points out. She gives him an unimpressed look, and he sees that she's clinging to sanity just as precariously as he is. "Okay, look. We're just going to deal with things the way that I always deal with things."

"What's that?" Rachel asks, willing to listen to anything at this point.

"We just _deal_ with it," Puck says. His tone suggests that this is a novel idea.

"Oh, is that all?" she asks snidely.

"That's it. We don't have a choice. We just take what comes our way and we do it."

"Is that how you dealt with the whole…you know, _Quinn_ thing. Just took it and willed yourself to deal with it in an acceptable manner?"

"Sort of, yeah. Whatever happens, happens. There's no use in freaking out about it. Not even now."

He puts his hand on her shoulder and smiles. And for a moment, she can understand. She gets what he's suggesting. Just letting go of all those feelings of pressure and duty that she's been feeling. Let go of the fears and the issues and the weighing of what's right and what's not. She looks at Puck and she understands why he didn't tell Finn. She understands why he slept with Quinn. She understands all of it, can see it more clearly than she would have ever thought herself able to. And she finally understands her own part in it, like the last puzzle piece falling into place.

She inches forward just a bit, testing the waters. Puck doesn't back down. He just smirks a little, the corner of his mouth lifting up and inviting her in.

And then Sue appears at the top of the stairs, Quinn and Will running right behind her and Emma clattering a little further behind. Sue is stalking, graceful and fierce and scary as fuck. Puck and Rachel spring apart instantly, because if _anything_ is a turn off, it's Sue Sylvester with a gun.

"She's going to kill Brittany!" Quinn yells. Rachel and Puck take a few steps forward, their guns held loosely but ready. Rachel isn't sure that she could shoot someone who's still alive, but Puck is. And there's no way in hell he's going to let Sue shoot Brittany. Not when Santana's working so hard to make her last moments beautiful.

Even _he _can appreciate the tragedy of the moment, and he will _not_ let her ruin it for Santana and Brittany, his favorite ex-girlfriends.

"She's dying already," Rachel says.

"I know. And I'm not letting her take out anyone else in the process."

"Santana will be careful."

"Listen to me, you little tartan princess. If you don't get out of the way…"

"You'll what, shoot me?" Rachel asks with exactly the _wrong_ kind of mocking confidence.

"Maybe."

"The hell you will," Puck growls, raising his gun and pointing it at Sue's head. She narrows her eyes, and Will sighs with exasperation. Rachel just smiles.

"She won't shoot me. She needs me, and she knows it. My drive and determination were a constant annoyance to her before today, but now I've factored so inextricably into her current plans that it would be impossible for her to continue without me. Especially since killing me to get to Brittany to kill _her_ would only further alienate Santana, her only other option for a leading woman."

"This isn't a production of _Wicked_, RuPaul. Get out of the way," Quinn hisses, reverting to insults to balance out the surprisingly intense fear she's feeling for Rachel at the moment. "She is _fully capable _of shooting you. I've seen her break a girl's kneecaps on purpose."

"That was an accident, Q," Sue replies without turning around. Quinn shakes her head frantically behind her. "But this won't be."

Rachel just folds her arms across her chest and tries to stand up taller.

"You're not getting in."

"You _do_ realize that you can no longer rely on the power of your status as the child of a gay couple to threaten me with the hate crime label, right?"

"Sue, please, let's just think this through," Will says, afraid to step forward lest anyone react unfavorably and end up shooting each other.

"I've thought it through. You're the one who brought up Jean."

"Why don't you just put the fucking gun down and stop pointing it at Rachel," Puck says.

"She will," Rachel says confidently, but only Puck is close enough to hear the tremor in her voice or see the way her arms are shaking. He grinds his teeth together. And he had been _so close_ to getting some action.

"You're all forgetting that my emotions were removed via electroshock therapy last year when I turned…twenty-eight. I could shoot all of you dead and not even blink."

No one's quite sure what to say to that, because even though the electroshock therapy stuff is pretty unlikely, it also would explain a lot.

"Then let's ascend to using _logic_, shall we?" Rachel says, stepping closer. Puck's arm snaps out and he yanks her back, shooting her a frustrated look. She keeps talking as if it hadn't happened, although everyone can see she's a little pissed at him for ruining her preplanned blocking. "If you kill Brittany, you'll have to kill Santana before she kills you. If you survive, that means you're without your best remaining shooter, because of course to get into this room you'll have to kill me, first. And I hardly think that Noah would take too kindly to it. Or Quinn, for that matter. Possibly?"

"It's true. Rachel and I are _friends_ now," Quinn says smugly to Sue. Rachel smiles at her, trying to convey her forgiveness in one expression. Which of course she does, because she has mastered the art of speaking through facial muscles. She and Quinn still need to have a serious conversation about Finn, but for the time being she's willing to pretend that everything is fine.

"Precisely. And I'm sure Mr. Schuester and Miss Pillsbury would be more willing to overlook your murder at the hands of, oh, the remainder of the student body if you were to so blindly massacre the four of us that it would take for this plan of yours, hastily constructed as it is, to succeed."

Sue glowers at her and opens her mouth to speak, but suddenly the door behind them opens, and Santana sticks her head out.

"You can all stop fighting about it now," she says bitterly. "Brittany's turned."

"Oh, Santana," Rachel murmurs, her hands going to her mouth in the same way that Quinn's are, several steps behind.

"Uh, shouldn't you…?" Puck says uncomfortably, not wanting to say the words but not wanting Santana to get jumped by a zombie Brittany, either.

"Yeah," Santana replies, and behind her they can hear Brittany's zombie struggling to its feet. Santana turns around and raises her pistol.

And Quinn covers her ears, but she can still hear the gunshot.


	10. Epitaph Z

Again with the delays! I'm so sorry, but I had a family issue that required a lot of time and effort. Hopefully within the next week or so, it'll be cleared up for good, and then I'll have more time to write.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm still floored at how much response this has gotten. Thanks especially to Pretention by Calvin Klein for some inspiring conversations via PM!

I slipped a little _Dollhouse_ action into this chapter, and I'm pretty sure I yanked a line from _Doctor Who_, but that was mostly unintentional (the _Doctor Who_, anyway. _Dollhouse_ was completely on purpose in honor of the Joss Whedon _Glee_ episode).

* * *

Chapter 10 - Epitaph Z

Brittany is dead. The information spreads like wildfire through the building at the sound of the gunshot. Everyone who isn't outside the door is down the hall, huddled together in one of the English rooms. When Matt ventures into the hallway long enough to confirm what they all suspect, Tina starts to cry. Artie looks around for guidance and wishes he could run away. Mercedes glances at her phone again, her mouth drawing into a tight line as she tries not to lose her cool. Kurt rubs Tina's back and closes his eyes, resting his head back against the wall. He's tired, and not just physically. He's tired of all the things that have happened today, of all the sacrifices that have already been made. He can't even _begin_ to think about what's happening to people outside. He can't even _imagine_ where he'd start. Focusing on the group, focusing on the _here_ and the _now _is the only thing that's keeping him even remotely sane. If he starts thinking about his uncles, his aunts, his _family_, he's going to lose it. So he focuses on Brittany. On her smiling face and her positive attitude and, okay, so it wasn't like she was perfect (last year she spilled warm milk over his head because Santana told her to, and he's never quite gotten over that), but she was _Brittany_. And even if she was sometimes kind of mean, she was still sweet _most of the time_.

And she's dead.

She's the first of them to die, and Kurt hates to think that there will probably be more bodies to add to the pile soon enough. He can't imagine losing _any _of them. Mercedes, Artie, and Tina are his closest friends, but they're just the tip of the iceberg. He's still harboring his hopes for Finn, and even though Quinn is standing in the way of it, he doesn't exactly hate her either. He used to, back when she was the person who made everyone miserable, but she's changed. It's hard to hate her when you can tell she's been trying to be a nicer person ever since she learned she was going to have to grow up a lot sooner than everyone else so her kid didn't end up on the evening news as a juvenile delinquent. And even Rachel, who fought him for solos and made his life a daily exercise in restraint once upon a time, doesn't seem nearly so bad when she's killing zombies and _not_ talking about her goals for the future. And Puck is probably still a douche, but he's so busy getting to live out his best sociopathic fantasies that he doesn't even register as a _threat_ anymore. And where would they be without Mike and Matt, who have been the only ones capable of remaining stoic throughout this entire day? And even Mr. Schuester (who is usually _far_ too wishy-washy for Kurt's taste) and Miss Pillsbury (her germaphobia is disconcerting) and _Sue Sylvester_, of all people, even _they _seem irreplaceable for the simple fact that they're _older_ and they're capable of giving _guidance_ even if they're so scared shitless that it means less than it should.

For that matter, where will they be without Brittany? Without Brittany to keep Santana grounded, to keep her fighting for something? Kurt knows that Santana cares about Brittany deeply. It's _so_ obvious, and not just that they've been fooling around. No, it's more than that. It's that best friendship turning slowly into love kind of thing that few people ever _really _experience. It's like what he'd feel for Mercedes if he was straight, or she was a man. And how is everyone supposed to go on when they see something like that? Because everyone has someone they'd rather die than lose, and they have to watch it happen to Santana.

Kurt doesn't even want to imagine what she is feeling. So he just puts on his brave face and lies his ass off. He tells everyone that it's all going to be okay.

* * *

What Santana is feeling is nothing. Not right now, anyway. She stares down at Brittany's zombified and then redeaded body, and she feels nothing. She _can't_ feel anything. Won't _let _herself feel anything. It's not going to work forever. She knows this already, but she's going to keep trying as long as she can. Because Santana has _never broken down_. Not in front of someone. Not when it was _important_. She's cried about losing tanning privileges. She's cried about not being able to eat her chocolate birthday cake thanks to her Cheerios diet. She's even cried about not making head Cheerio. But none of that was _real_. None of that was like this at all. She doesn't know how to _do _this. She's never lost anyone close to her before. Her grandparents are still alive, she's never had a dog get run over, and when her great-aunt died it was a relief because the woman was _loaded _and also a racist bitch who didn't take kindly to the Lopez that Santana's mom had married.

It just feels like crying wouldn't be enough. Like she could cry forever and it wouldn't measure up to what she's feeling. It's like there's a hole in her stomach. It's like she's been sucked dry of any substance. A great big black hole opened up inside her heart and took anything in there that it could find.

She stands there, and she tries to ignore the quiet murmurings of everyone behind her, and it's hard because none of them (especially not Coach and Rachel) understand the concept of _quiet_ very well.

"We can't just keep the body here. There's a reason we've evolved past the dark ages," Coach Sylvester says, accompanied by a loud grinding of her teeth. "Maybe _you _don't understand, but _you've_ never waded through crocodile-infested swamp waters with a rotting corpse on your back. It's like someone with gonorrhea relieving themselves on a fresh corpse lodged in a garbage chute and lighting the whole thing on fire. The fumes are _exhaustingly_ vile."

Quinn says (with bonus points for at least _attempting _quiet) "Coach Sylvester is right, of course. I think. But how are we supposed to…do it? Should we risk trying to do a burial?" Santana hates that Quinn is so _nice _all the time now. It's like the fetus is sucking all of the _bitch_ out of her. It's going to make that baby fierce as all hell, sure, but it's also annoying as fuck. And Santana _really_ doesn't like being the only asshole in the group with a vagina (she has a theory that Coach Sylvester is an alien without a gender). Sometimes Quinn steps up and does her fair share of the snark, but it's lately been sort of weak and embarrassing. And Mercedes is too nice to be _really _mean, even though she fools herself into thinking she can dish it out without feeling bad afterwards. And whenever Rachel tries to be rude, it's about something no one cares about, like singing voices or ability to memorize dance steps. Everyone is too _nice_. Everyone is too _soft._ She doesn't need soft right now. She needs someone with steel guts to come storming over. She needs someone to be so heinously horrible to her that she'll forget how sad she is. She needs someone to just _piss her off_.

"Well, there aren't any zombies around here for the time being, but…I don't know. What do you think, Mr. Schue?" Rachel asks. He looks surprised that anyone is even asking him. Santana rolls her eyes.

"Look, why don't we all just cut the shit? Apparently you're all like, _painfully_ determined to be the nicest survivor here, but _enough_. I don't need your _sympathy_, all right? I don't need you to tiptoe around me like I'm the hormonal pregnant one, or the mentally ill former Marine, or the Glenn Close wannabe. Let's get the body in a sheet and let's just get her downstairs and outside. We can burn her with the rest of the bodies."

"Burn?" Miss Pillsbury asks, obviously nauseated. And more than usual, too. Santana swallows her own rising bile and answers in a steely tone.

"Yeah. Burn. Is there a better way to get rid of them? I don't think so."

Santana stands with her arms across her chest, forcing herself not to cry. She can't handle this, being rational. She shouldn't _have _to be rational. But bury Brittany? _Please_. Brittany's ideal death ritual was to be put into fireworks and burst across the sky at Disney World. Since that's not exactly possible or at all a productive use of their time, burning is going to have to do. Plus, it's not like they're going to be treating the other bodies any differently. And those are people they cared about, too. Those are people who lived in their _town_. Their families and friends. Why should Brittany receive any different treatment?

Puck nods (because Puck's soullessness allows him to agree, and his sliver of conscience allows him to understand) and nudges Mr. Schue to spur him into action. Rachel follows soon after, although she looks like she wants to argue. Santana's glad that she doesn't, because she doesn't have any acidic barbs preplanned like she usually does. And she's already called Rachel "Barbara's Ugly Brother" twice today, so it's not like she can use _that _one again without looking totally lame.

Coach Sylvester leaves the room ahead of Mr. Schue, Puck, Rachel, and the bloody sheet containing Brittany's corpse. Mr. Schue and Puck are carrying the front corners while Rachel takes up the back. Miss Pillsbury reaches out like she wants to help, but retracts her hands quickly and mutters apologies as she follows them out of the room and rubs at invisible germs on her fingers. Only Quinn doesn't leave, and Santana hates her for it.

"I'm so sorry," Quinn says once the door has closed them off from the rest of the school.

"Right."

"I mean it."

"_Of course_ you mean it. Look, Q. No offense, but I don't _need_ you to apologize."

"I know, I'm just…you shouldn't be going through this."

"No, I _should_. Right? I _deserve _this." She laughs bitterly and ignores the way the sound twists her own stomach into knots. "That's what people would say. I'm a bitch. I'm a slut. But that's okay, you know? Because I _love _it. I _own _it. That's who I want to be, and I like myselfthe way I am. Fuck everyone else, right? Morally speaking, I sort of had this karma coming. But Brittany? She didn't. It should have been me, but it wasn't. It was _her. _It doesn't make sense. There is no _plan, _no saving grace in the clouds. And you know what? Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe now you can stop acting like this is the end of _your _world. Maybe it can stop being all about your stupid _religion_ and your stupid Puck-baby."

"You know?" Quinn asks, and Santana wants to claw her face off, but she doesn't. She just sighs, swallows her emotion, and inwardly _screams_.

"Of _course_ I know. Puck spilled the beans to Mercedes, and she told all of us. Whatever. Like I even _care_. So you actually slept with someone and stopped being an uptight _prude_. Big deal. Like Finn's never cheated on you emotionally."

"Well _his _mistakes don't have the same consequences," Quinn says with the barest amount of venom, rubbing her hand over her stomach. And for some reason, that pisses Santana off. Really fucking _pisses her off_.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she asks witheringly. "Do you know how lucky you are? Berry's all but laying spread-eagle in the hallway for him, and he hasn't done much more than kiss her, maybe fondle a boob if he's got more stones than I think he does. I mean, do you _get_ how lucky that makes you? You found a fumbling naïve virgin just like _you_. You found someone who's going to _stand by you_, no matter how much shit you throw at him. You found someone who treats you like you're fucking _royalty_, and you treat her like shit because it makes you feel good about yourself to put someone down."

Quinn steps forward, reaching out a hand, and it's only then that Santana realizes she's crying. Black tears down her cheeks, mascara running, the whole nine yards. And she said _she _instead of _he_ because, well, this isn't Quinn's time anyway. This is _her _time, and she'll be damned if she's going to give it up. It's all so fucking dramatic, and _beyond _lame, but she can't stop.

"San…" Quinn starts, but Santana pulls away from her.

"No. Stop. Just stop. She's _dead_. What the hell am I supposed to do now? She's dead, and I'm _here_. Here with all you pathetic losers. How is that fair? She's dead, and I'm alone. I'm all alone. I'm _always _alone."

And she keeps talking, but that's the last of the intelligible phrases. Everything from that point on is just garbled, broken anguish.

* * *

Puck knew that they had rocked the hell out of the zombie horde. He knew that they had decimated them. It was pretty safe to say that their little group of Wolverines were epic, all of them. But standing outside in the parking lot, knee deep in corpses, he has ascended to a whole new level of feeling awesome about himself. He's been a loser all his life. He knew it from the first time he set foot in kindergarten class and realized that these kids had their cool Spiderman shirts and their fruit roll-ups, and he was lucky if his mom remembered to pack him a snack. Hell, he was lucky if he even _got _to school. He missed so many days, they'd kept him back that first year. And then it was just a _fact_. 'Noah Puckerman, _he got held back a year_'. He'd hear people saying that. Like, '_oh, he's not supposed to be here_ 'or '_wonder why he didn't make it_?' And it'd be said with this _sarcasm_, this attempt at humor that was probably funny to people who weren't him. There were two kinds of losers; the kind who got teased through high school and the kind who failed at life. Puck had always expected to be the kind that failed at life.

But now? Fuck. They're all dead.

"We should move the bodies into the street," Rachel is saying from behind him. "And wait for the wind to change before we burn them. Or at least close all the windows. It's going to smell…"

"Don't even pretend you know what it's going to smell like," Coach Sylvester growls from up front, and Rachel falls silent. There's something different about Coach Sylvester, now. And no one quite wants to mess with it, or try to understand it. She has always been difficult and frightening, but this is different. There is no more humor infused in her insults. They are pure hatred and fear, and Puck knows that's a pretty deadly combination. Especially considering the fact that her defense mechanism for any situation seems to be inflicting physical pain, and she's carrying around an AK-47 and a belt filled with grenades.

"There are too many bodies out here. How are we supposed to drag them all out?" Rachel whispers helplessly, quiet enough so that Coach Sylvester can't hear her. Puck and Mr. Schue shrug. Miss Pillsbury swallows deliberately and turns to them with a waveringly bright smile but no helpful suggestions. Rachel sighs.

She wants to _do _something. She wants to _plan _something. She wants to organize their supplies alphabetically or according to estimated frequency of usage or by color or _anything_. She wants to use her hands, she wants to use her brain, and she doesn't want to use her emotions ever again. Brittany is dead, and she doesn't know what to do about it. She has never met a problem she couldn't solve if she put her mind to it. That was her biggest pride and joy other than her voice. But now? Now, there's nothing to do. Just stillness and silence. And singing is _hardly _going to help that, she has to unfortunately admit.

They lay Brittany's body on the grass, far away from the other zombies. They want to treat her differently. Even though they know they're stepping over (and occasionally accidentally _on_) the bodies of their friends, families, and distant acquaintances, they want _her_ to be special. They want her to stand out. But even Rachel has to reluctantly admit that a funeral pyre looming over the town is hardly economical.

Coach Sylvester is looking across the field at nothing, her gun hanging limply by her side. Somewhere in the distance, a car's brakes squeal, and there's a crash. Rachel swallows thickly and forces her best Zombie Killer smile onto her face. Like slipping into her most comfortable of flats, or like slipping into the role of Maria from _West Side Story_, this role has very quickly become melded to her form. Over the course of the day, she has managed to convince herself that _this _is the part she was born to play. And she's going to stick to that. No matter what happens, she _has_ to stick to that.

"Let's start dragging," she says as cheerfully as she is able. Puck gives her a disturbed look, but she ignores it. They'll thank her later. One day.

* * *

When Finn walks into the building to grab a drink an hour later, Quinn is standing at the bottom of the stairs. Most of the kids are outside helping with the removal of the bodies, but after putting in a solid effort and throwing up twice, she was made exempt and sent back inside.

She is completely silent as he approaches, her eyes on him the whole way, and he starts to wonder if he has blood on his face from dragging the zombies or something. He looks down at his hands and sees that they're mostly clean (Miss Pillsbury keeps insisting that they need to sanitize after every zombie they drag into the road, so she's been making them use hand sanitizer _a lot_), and he doesn't _feel _like there's anything on his face, but he still slows down when he reaches her, because he feels like he's _supposed _to.

"How's Santana doing?" he asks, because it's the right thing _to _ask.

But Quinn doesn't answer. Quinn just kisses him. She kisses him like he's her sole reason for living, like how Rachel kissed him that one time at the bowling alley, like how he and Quinn have _never _kissed before, because she's always been so restrained.

Now she's not. Now she's all passion and fire and need, and when she pulls away her eyes are glistening with unshed tears that Finn notices but doesn't say anything about.

"Um," he says, but she just shakes her head and starts backing up the stairs slowly. He's afraid she's going to trip over a step and fall, but she doesn't. She's graceful. She won't.

"I love you," she says seriously. "I want you to always know that I love you. Always."

"I love you too," Finn replies, confused.

"I just didn't want to have never said it," Quinn says.

Finn's confused again, because she _has _told him that she loves him before. She says it all the time. She says it when he brings her ice cream for her cravings and makeup for her acne breakouts and his mom's old maternity clothes. She says it when they're just lying in bed and it's time to go to sleep and he asks if he can feel the baby kick yet. She says it at every ultrasound. She says it _all the time_.

But Quinn, walking back up the stairs to tend to her friend, Quinn knows that she's never quite said it like _this _before.

* * *

By the time the sun sets on the first day of the end of the world, the bodies of the zombies are ablaze. Everyone watches from the closed-and-fastened upstairs windows as the fire illuminates the blood-stained parking lot in front of them.

"We'll hose the whole thing down tomorrow," Coach Sylvester says darkly. "Once that fire goes out. Then I'm taking a trip to get some supplies to _really _fortify this place."

She turns and walks back into the hallway, probably to start first watch. No one really wants to go with her, but Mr. Schue and a very reluctant Miss Pillsbury eventually follow. The kids are left alone, standing at the window and watching the flames down below. Everyone is there, except for Santana. They can't get her to leave the room where Brittany died. And no one really even knows how to try.

Finally, the lure of the fire wanes, and they all move apart to get some sleep in their respective chosen rooms for the night. The sound of mattresses being dragged across the floor is eerily like the sound of zombies walking, but no one mentions it. They're all too afraid to say the word, as if admitting the existence of the things outside will draw them closer.

Only Rachel doesn't move, because Rachel is examining Miss Pillsbury's "Crazy Lists" – as they have been dubbed by the majority of the remaining student body – as if they're religious texts and not the scribblings of a very frightened woman.

"She's right," Rachel says to no one in particular. Since Finn is the only one still in the room, he wanders over looking like he _knows _he's probably going to regret his next words.

"What do you mean?" he asks. Rachel looks up, her eyes wide and frantic like they sometimes get when she's really on a roll with one of her more insanity-fueled ideas.

"I mean, this is about more than just survival. Noah's strategy is well and good. It keeps us alive. And yes, Noah and Mr. Schuester and I gathered an assortment of activities and tools to keep us in high spirits, but that's not going to be enough either. The things that we face every day without even thinking about it are staggering. Here, right here, Miss Pillsbury mentions the common cold. Simple enough on its own, but there's also the flu, and there's also pneumonia, and there's also new variations of flu, because if this plague turns people into walking hungry corpses, who _knows_ what else it brings in the way of an airborne…?"

"Whoa, whoa," Finn says, holding his arms up as if to fend off the words that she's trying to pound into his brain. Because even though Finn has never been _smart_, he's not _completely _an idiot by accident. He likes to stay blissfully ignorant of some things. All the crap that Rachel's saying about disease and implied death? He'd like to stay ignorant of that for as long as he possibly can.

"This is important. This _matters_," Rachel insists, but Finn grips her arms in his hands and shakes his head.

"No. Puck's right. We have to focus on today, and that's it. I mean, yeah, maybe we should take a trip out to the hospital, see if we can get some supplies or something. Every little bit helps, definitely. But we can't go freaking out about every little thing because Miss Pillsbury came up with a list of Worst Case Scenarios. It's just going to freak us all out, and I think we're all freaked out enough already, don't you?"

"Admittedly, yes. I find it hard to believe I'm going to be able to sleep tonight, let alone survive another week of days like this."

"Exactly. So, and I know that you hate when people say this to you, but just chill out, all right? Just don't think about it."

Finn takes the papers and smiles tolerantly as Rachel looks ready to pounce on him and take them back by force. She opens her mouth to protest, but breaks off and shakes her head, finally nodding her consent.

"Fine. You're right. Of course you are. Take them. I'll be down in a little while. I just need to reflect for a moment. Recharge."

And it's only when Finn leaves the room, and it's only when she is truly and finally _alone_ for the first time today, that she allows herself to break character for a moment to just _sob_.

* * *

Quinn stands in the doorway of the rehearsal room while Puck struggles to drag two mattresses towards her.

"You know, I appreciate the gesture but Finn will be down in a second."

"It's not a big deal. What, you think I can't handle it? _Please_. Look at me."

He flexes his arms and gives her a pointed look. She stifles a nervous (admiring?) giggle and finally nods.

"Okay. Fine." She pauses for a brief moment and forces herself to keep her tone steady when she asks, "How are you doing, anyway?"

"Me? I'm _totally _fine. No freaking out over here." He grows quiet and finally turns around to look at her for the first time in this current conversation. "Why? How are _you_ doing?"

It's the quiet quality of his question that really pushes her over the edge. He's no more fine than she is. He's just better at hiding it. She steps into the room and closes the door.

"I'm not doing good," she admits.

"Well…do you want to talk about it or, uh, something?"

"I can't talk about it with Finn. That's the thing. Finn…well, you know. He's all supportive and positive but he doesn't _really _understand. He can't, because I won't tell him."

"You told Rachel, though."

"Yeah. I did. I couldn't _deal _with it anymore, you know? The secret. Carrying it around inside me. I had to let it out. I knew _you _weren't going to tell anyone, because it's not like you care, but I couldn't live with it."

"You think I don't care? Quinn, he's my _best friend_. And sure, that doesn't mean the same thing it means for chicks, but it still means a lot. I care about the guy more than I care about my own family. I don't ever want to hurt him. And if you make fun of me for saying this, I will never speak to you again, but I kind of _love_ him, you know? Not in a gay way, just…"

"I get it, Puck. God. Why can't you just be honest for two seconds? Would it kill you to just say what you feel? There are _zombies_ out there. They've already killed Brittany. They're probably going to kill another one of us soon. You can't just open up and _say _what you want, can you? You can't just get over this stupid notion you have that you have to be _tough _all the time…that you're what a _real man _is? Not even for me?"

"Why would I want to do _shit_ for you?" Puck asks, even though he knows it's the wrong thing to say. He's angry. And when he gets angry, he lashes out in the least productive way so everyone will get frustrated and leave and he won't have to deal with the conversation anymore. But Quinn isn't getting angry, because apparently this is the one time that her hormones have decided to take a break and _not _overreact to every little thing.

"I know you, Puck, even though sometimes I wish I didn't. You're not as tough as you think you are. You're scared just like the rest of us, but you're so determined to keep it hidden that you're willing to alienate anyone who tries to help. Well don't. Because there are people here who care about you, despite the fact that you probably want to act like you don't care about them. And we all have to help each other, you know? Because it's not like we're going to be able to get help from anywhere else."

"You think you're this, like, social genius or whatever," Puck growls. "You think you understand everyone because you're on the outside of everything now. Like you're just this observer who watches people and figures out all their nasty insides that no one else sees. You're not that special, Quinn. You're not that smart, either."

Quinn just shakes her head and cups her hand under her stomach again. Puck's about to snap at her to stop doing that, stop reminding him that it's his fault she's pregnant, but she speaks before he has the chance.

"I know I'm not smart. Look at me. If I was smart, I never would have slept with you. I never would have let my insecurities turn my life into…well, I guess my life would have fallen apart whether or not I got pregnant, but still. I'm not smart, but that's the point. None of us are. We're all growing and changing and…everyone goes through that in high school. I remember my sister being really different when she was younger, and then she grew up. We just have to grow up a lot faster than she did. We have to grow up today, and tomorrow, and maybe the day after that. If we're not grown up enough by then to realize that we need each other, then I think we'll probably be lost causes."

Puck just shrugs his shoulders and turns his back, pulling the mattresses towards the door once again.

"Whatever," he says gruffly. "What room are you and Finn sleeping in, anyway?"

Quinn sighs and says, "Mrs. Allen's science room."

And she wishes for the thousandth time since sleeping with Puck that things could be _simple_. Because, watching the way his shoulders are slumping and his face is trying to stay impassive, she thinks she could love him if only the universe agreed.

* * *

Mercedes is pretty sure that killing zombies is like eating a lot of candy on Halloween night. There was that brief, amazing high. A high so epic that it didn't even have words. She felt like the strongest of strong women. She felt like a character played by Pam Grier or Gina Torres. She felt like someone who would be able to take on a zombie with a punch to the face or something equally as ridiculous. But now? That's gone. She has crashed so hard that she feels like even moving out of the way of a speeding truck wouldn't be worth it. Like even _breathing_ takes more effort than she wants to spend.

As soon as she gets her mattress laid out between Kurt's and Tina's, she drags a blanket across her body and closes her eyes. Kurt is attaching sheets to his mattress like it's a real bed, organizing pillows and chattering happily to Mike as he does so, but Mercedes doesn't care. She just wants to sleep. She wants to sleep, and she wants to wake up in the morning to discover that this has all been a dream.

Failing that, she wants to find that her mother has left her a voicemail.

"We're going to be fine," is the last thing she hears before she drifts off. It's Kurt, reassuring a somewhat-panicky Matt. "With _me _guarding us, there's no way we could possibly fail."

And Mercedes falls asleep, against all odds, with a smile.

* * *

Emma has given a lot of thought to the sleeping arrangements. She has always been a fan of the method of coping where you just don't think about the present circumstances and instead focus all attentions on something else that is less horrendously awful. Thus, she spent most of the day fantasizing about sleeping next to Will. And that is all that it will be, too. Just sleeping. She is a _realist_, most staunchly, and she recognizes that Will has probably been very traumatized by his wife's death and won't be willing to indulge any of her more graphic fantasies (although admittedly her 'most' graphic fantasies are probably the sort of scenes that would be allowed even on network television, complete with cut-away scenes and fades to black). And, in addition, she is hardly ready to surmount her so-far insurmountable problems. The end of the world doesn't just _erase _prior trauma, even though you'd think that would be the case.

But when she walks into the science room and calculates that there are not nearly enough mattresses for Will to even try to weasel his way out of sharing, she starts to feel the old familiar hyperventilation coming on. What if she snores? What if she moves around in her sleep? What if he would rather sleep on the floor than sleep beside her? What if he tries to make a joke that falls flat and then causes the entire situation to transition until it's unbearably awkward? There are so many possibilities for failure, and Emma can picture all of them coming true. _All of them_.

She bites the inside of her cheek and fidgets with the hem of her shirt. Given that it's blood-stained and ripped in several places by now, making sure the hem is even hardly seems like an acceptable use of her time, but she does it anyway.

It's so strange what she does to feel _normal_.

Will finally looks up from his rigorous study of the off-gray flecks in the linoleum, and smiles brightly in her direction. His overcompensation is reminiscent of Rachel's, and Emma is very uncomfortable with that. She hates the idea that he feels the need to put on some sort of brave face for her. She wants to be the person to whom he is raw and real and without falseness. She wants to be his rock. She wants to be what Terri could not be.

"Hi," she says, putting on a brave front of her own and stepping into the room a little further. The sound of her heel hitting the floor is unexpectedly loud, and she falters. "I…um, I noticed that there aren't enough mattresses for everyone."

"No, but we'll be switching off for watch. People can trade off if they have to."

"Oh, right," Emma says, inwardly cursing her inability to see that one coming. But then she stops, because she remembers what she overheard Quinn saying to Kurt earlier in the day: there are _zombies_ outside. And, yes, it's a statement of the obvious, but it was the way in which she said it that rendered it so effective. Quinn understood in that moment that nothing should be holding them back. Not conceptions of politeness, not conceptions of right or wrong, not conceptions of appropriateness. Certainly, that's bound to get messy eventually (she saw _28 Days Later_ due to her love of Christopher Eccleston, and was left utterly disillusioned by his character's rationale of rape in that movie, but it was certainly informative), but to at least some extent the principles are important.

Namely: if she wants to sleep beside Will, she's going to sleep beside Will.

Will asks, "Emma? You all right?"

"Yes. Of course. Listen, Will…I know that Terri just died, and before she died she betrayed you suddenly and unexpectedly and that was…messy. And I avoid messes. All messes, physical and emotional, but I don't want to avoid this one. I want to be with you in the mess because there's no way out of it anymore, and you shouldn't have to do it alone. There's no reason for me to avoid it. So tonight I want to sleep next to you on that mattress, and if you feel inclined to kiss me, I'll try my best not to flinch. Oh, and if I do flinch, please know ahead of time that it's not a comment on my feelings for you. It's unavoidable, and I'm sorry."

Will blinks several times and very rapidly, and Emma is beginning to rethink her End of the World strategy, but thankfully he speaks before she has to.

"Emma, of course. I'd be honored to sleep next to you."

He doesn't say anything about the kissing, Emma notices, but she sits primly on the mattress with the very proud decision to ignore that fact.

* * *

Rachel looks around the room and frowns.

"Remember how you said at the beginning of the day that you would have proven to Quinn that you were a good guy and I would be sleeping with Finn in this sleeping bag?"

"Yeah," Puck sighs from his place by the window. "I remember."

"I'm very dissatisfied with how this has turned out."

"On the plus side, we have a mattress instead of just a sleeping bag."

"True, but not very comforting. Although I have to admit, all of that sleeping…stuff hardly seems as important now as it did at the beginning of the day. Finn is as lovely as ever, but given my decision to become a strong and take charge woman with no room for patronizing males, he doesn't quite fit into my heart as much as he once did."

Puck looks genuinely surprised at that.

"What, so liking him was just because you thought it worked for your whole Broadway thing?"

"I didn't say _that_. I said that it's inconvenient, liking him now. Especially given the recent developments of my burgeoning and tentative friendship with Quinn, and my role as the keeper of the secret of the baby's patronage. And, honestly, what was once perceived by me as romantic concern for my wellbeing has suddenly become irritating patriarchal rhetoric. And anyway, I think we all knew that me and Finn was a pipe dream even back when I believed it was fated to happen. The kind of thing that only happens if you're in a movie."

"Yeah. Kind of like zombies."

"Again, a valid point."

"I don't really get what you're saying. And, dude? I kinda don't care. The only reason I'm even in here is because I don't feel like watching Finn and Quinn virgin snuggle with my baby bump between them, and Kurt loudly told Mercedes that something smelled like excess testosterone when I walked into the room, and I feel like that was a diss."

"That would depend on Kurt's feelings on excess testosterone. Although given his affections for Finn, I feel like you wouldn't really be his type."

"Right, because Finn's Mr. Perfect and I'm Mr. Douche."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Why don't you ever just say the things you mean? You're always like, making excuses and being like 'oh, not like _that_'. Just use words that make sense. It's not that fucking hard."

And of course, the irony of that statement isn't lost on him (he briefly hears Quinn's voice echoing the same sentiments in his head), but he ignores it.

"It is when you want people to like you," Rachel sighs with that self-depreciating laugh which always makes Puck feel bad for her (a little). "It's _easy _for you. You can say whatever you want to say, and people will love it, or be too afraid of you to think anything bad about it. Whatever I say is always _wrong_. Whether it comes from the heart or from hours of careful construction."

"That's because all you ever talk about is your stupid voice and your stupid future. Like anyone actually gives a shit about that."

"It's the only thing I know! I've been after this dream my whole life. I've never wanted anything else. I've never wanted friends, I just wanted applause. I wanted people to like me for my talent, not for what's inside. And then high school came, and everything I'd ever learned was useless. There is a surprising lack of respect for showtunes in our demographic. And suddenly people were saying hurtful things, and it was impossible to keep from caring."

"Yeah, so learn new shit. Not everything is super complicated, Rachel. Sometimes you just have to _deal _with things. Like this, today. You're doing all right."

"But it's all an act. It's not really _me_."

"So 'you' is the crazy chick who talks about Tonys on dates? "

"Yes."

"Shit."

"Precisely the problem I'm having. I'm capable of adopting facades, as I've demonstrated today, and I'm even capable of enjoying these facades. Killing zombies, for example, is far more enjoyable than I would have believed it to be. Also far more enjoyable than shooting tin cans of a fencepost while listening to Bible verses read by Charlton Heston on tape, most of which pertained to the lifestyle of my family. But when it comes to friendships…shouldn't I be myself? Shouldn't I talk about what _I _want to talk about? I've always been raised to believe that friends are people who like and accept you for who you are, not who you should be. I'm just…I'm confused. I'm torn. And this is far from my most pressing issue at the moment, and this is definitely _not _what I should be wasting my time thinking about. It's hardly as if this matters. I don't even know why I'm talking about this."

"Yeah, welcome to my head five minutes ago. I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation like, twelve times. And we barely ever talk. And, all right, I'm sort of pissed at myself for even sitting here and listening to you talk _forever_, but here goes. People don't get you because you're annoying, and you're weird, and you dress like you're a slut and a Catholic School girl at the same time. And not the slutty kind. The legit kind with nuns and stuff. But who cares about what people think? If you like yourself, fuck them. That's what my dad told me before he left, and that's what I do."

"Hardly encouraging, you have to admit."

"Yeah, okay, maybe he was an asshole. But he was right about this. Look at me. I'm a jackass, but Finn likes me anyway. And you sort of like me, sometimes, I think."

"You have moments. Like this one."

"Exactly. And Quinn likes me, even though she doesn't want to, and Mike and Matt like me, and even fucking _Artie_ likes me, and I was a dick to him. So just be yourself, or whatever. And if you change a little and stop doing whatever your version of 'locking people in port-o-potties' would be, then good for you. We're in fucking _high school_. We were never supposed to stay this way forever."

Rachel doesn't feel any less confused by the prospect of personality and how much of a betrayal it is to oneself if one changes for the approval of other people, but she _does _feel reassured that at least she has finally said something aloud. And Puck has been surprisingly insightful and willing to listen without being _too _judgmental (his default stage is snidely disgusted by everything, so Rachel feels fairly confident about his responses to her complaints).

To express her gratitude for his patience and understanding, she leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek. Puck, of course, believes that she missed his lips by accident, and turns his head to meet hers. Rachel is at first horrified by the misunderstanding, and sure that it's somehow going to turn around and be blamed on her, but gradually (as in, over the span of the next one and a half seconds) changes her figurative tune.

Zombies be damned. If this is the end of the world, she's not going out without having reached _at least _second base.

* * *

And two doors down, Santana sleeps alone.


	11. Show Me Your Teeth

**Chapter 11** – Show Me Your Teeth

When the sun shines its first tentative rays over Lima the next morning, it illuminates the striking image of Sue Sylvester standing silhouetted against the gradually lightening sky on the roof of McKinley High School. AK-47 strapped to her back, machete hanging from the utility belt around her waist, and long-distance rifle held in her unwavering hands, she surveys the parking lot below with an expert eye. If the sun could feel fear, it would pull its head back below the horizon.

Sue narrows her eyes at the sight of movement through the trees that line the front driveway of the school. A zombie – its glassy eyed disdain for the very sight of the building mark it as a former student – is shuffling through the grass at an embarrassing pace. Sue almost wants to whip out her megaphone to spur the thing into action. Just because it's dead, that's no excuse for laziness. It's never going to catch a meal at _that _pace. And besides, as much as she enjoys the chance to put her combat training to good use, things were simpler when she could instill fear in the crawling underbelly of the earth just by _existing_ and wearing tracksuits while prowling the halls of their school. But things are different now. These zombies don't _fear_. They don't _think_. They just senselessly wander until they catch a whiff of something juicy. And then they eat.

It would be frustrating if it wasn't such an invigorating challenge. They are the kind of prey she was born to hunt. And she's the kind of hunter they will learn to fear. If it's the last thing she does, they _will _fear her.

She smiles, raises the gun to her shoulder, and fires a shot through the center of the zombie's skull.

* * *

When Quinn was younger, she liked to spend the mornings lying awake in bed and waiting for her dad to get her for breakfast. It all started the morning of her sister's first cheerleading competition. Quinn heard her dad coming up the stairs to get her, and for some reason she decided to lay still and make him wake her up. She was mad at him for something that she didn't even remember at the time, and even though she was only eight years old she had this idea that she wanted to inconvenience him like he had inconvenienced her. Then the phone rang, and Quinn listened with a full-to-bursting heart while he discussed plans for a new house he was thinking of building in Florida. She stayed there silently, breathlessly, and listened to him say things like 'family game night' and 'barbeque with the girls'. She stayed there and dreamed about this perfect dream house. A home away from home. A family that _did_ things together and a father who didn't love his money more than he loved his kids.

But then one of his stores went under, and he got wrapped up in work again, and they never did get that dream house. But that never stopped Quinn from lying there in the mornings. She'd pretend to forget to set her alarm, or hit 'sleep' until he finally had enough. She liked the quiet minutes that would pass before he'd shake her awake. Sometimes he would stand in the doorway and watch her sleep (she tried to look extra adorable, especially if he'd gone to bed mad at her). Sometimes he'd sit on the bed beside her and stroke her hair. A month ago, he whispered that she would always be his little girl.

Today she isn't hoping for anything like that. She doesn't expect a Florida dream house, and she doesn't expect her father to whisper that he forgives her and that she's still his little girl even after what she did. This morning she lies there because she's just not ready to get up. She's not ready to start another one of these horrible days. She lies there because if she closes her eyes and stays perfectly still, she can almost pretend that she's back in her room with her dad getting ready for work down the hall. She can almost pretend that she's not pregnant during the apocalypse.

She curls on her side and listens to Finn getting dressed while she hugs a pillow to her stomach. His youthful naivety lends itself well to this kind of situation, she thinks. He's humming. As long as he has people to guide him like Coach Sylvester and Puck, he'll be okay. He's so optimistic about everything. She loves him for it, and for many other things. He just needs some guidance because he's too pleasant to survive on his own.

Before he leaves the room, he bends down and kisses her on the lips. And he'll always remember the way that she smiles in her sleep when he does it.

* * *

Rachel has been up since the sunrise, sitting at the window with her elbows on the sill and her eyes straining for every sign of movement. But each time she spots a zombie, Coach Sylvester annihilates it a moment later from her perch on the rooftop. It has become something of a personal quest for Rachel to shoot one that Coach Sylvester hasn't seen, although she's beginning to realize the impossibility of this particular dream. She may have most of the school beat when it comes to singing and dancing, but she's just not _good _enough to beat Coach Sylvester in the area of ferocity and determination to kill.

Of course, that doesn't mean she's going to stop _trying_.

She hears Puck rousing from his surprisingly deep sleep and steels herself for the inevitable awkwardness that she expects will follow. Most of her time waiting for Coach Sylvester to slip up has been spent analyzing various avenues that the "morning after" conversation with Puck could take. Having imagined no desirable outcome, she is left only with complete avoidance. Mostly because she knows it's what he would prefer.

"What the hell are you doing _up_?" he asks with surprise when he squints at the clock on the wall. He flinches as if he's just been struck when he works out the time. "It's seven in the fucking morning."

"Yes? And?"

"We're already at school, and I'm pretty sure zombie Figgins will forgive us for skipping class. So why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep. Jacob wandered in here a few hours ago and acted as if it was an accident once he noticed you, but I've been understandably restless ever since. Why are you?"

Her voice is natural, breezy, and completely without any hints of the awkwardness she is feeling. She hopes.

"I don't know. The gunshots coming from the roof are sort of annoying. And it still smells like ass in here. We're gonna need to dig out some of those super-strength fans we saw when we were getting out the parking lot lights, or we'll never get this fucking smell out."

"I agree. That can be the first joint task of the day."

She smiles brightly and tries not to look at any part of his body that will bring about memories of last night. No easy feat. Especially not when he props himself up on his elbows so the sheet slides further down to expose more of his bare torso.

"Dude, what's wrong with you? You got that crazy eye thing going on right now. Like when you're trying not to freak the fuck out after you get slushied. You're not gonna go apeshit about last night, are you? Because you were _totally_ down with it at the time."

"Oh, of course I was. Yes. It was lovely."

She turns back around at a speed that possibly causes whiplash, and she prays that he doesn't bring it up again. And he doesn't, because he's a little too confused to even try.

* * *

Kurt leaves his place at the front door (where he has just spent the better part of the night trying to ignore Mike's rambling musings on the ethics of killing zombies and whether or not the survivors will feel guilty about the zombies they killed in the event of a cure being found) once Mercedes and Matt show up to replace him. Mercedes gives him a dirty look when he walks by her without saying anything, but she has her phone in her hands and he can practically see her fingers shaking with the effort of trying not to flip it open and check for messages that she knows aren't there. He just doesn't have the strength to talk to her about her dead parents. Not when he's so busy trying to pretend to be strong about his own. Anyway, he has something to do before everyone else wakes up.

During his night of ignoring Mike's philosophizing, Kurt formed something of a plan. It wasn't exactly anything concrete, but he wrote it down on his mental list of things to do and underlined it _twice _so he wouldn't forget. Because even though it isn't essential to their survival, it _is_ essential to his long term goals.

Kurt has always been the kind of person who plans ahead for contingencies that most people wouldn't even consider. Back when fashion was an option and not an already-distant memory, he organized his wardrobe every Sunday for the entire following week. When he was eight, he forced his father to make investments so that they would be able to start a modest college fund. At thirteen, he decided that he'd never be attracted to a man named Jeff, because seeing _Jurassic Park _and _Independence Day _both in one night and being terrified equally by each film had instilled in him a somewhat irrational fear of Jeff Goldblum (Jeffs still repulsed him).

So once the panic died down after the initial revelation that they were on the menu for their former friends and neighbors, Kurt knew that they would need a plan. It isn't _just _about survival, no matter what Coach Sylvester says. It's about giving everyone something to live for. So Kurt started collecting data. Figuring out what made everyone tick. And he did that by remaining as invisible as ever. He just _listened _to people as they talked. Actually listened. He knows that Mercedes needs someone to take care of, so he plans on breaking down about his dad a little bit later. But first comes Rachel, because he's proud of his idea (and a little excited to see her head explode with indignant annoyance). He heard Rachel say that she needed an audience, that she needed a flock of loyal fans. And so after some deliberation, he knew exactly what to do to help his first fairy goddaughter.

He heads immediately for the art room. He's honestly surprised when Rachel isn't there, but it makes things that much easier. He takes her zombie killing poster and brings it right back to the front hallway where he tapes it up, ignores Matt's confused questions and the dubious look he's getting from Mercedes, and marks down the fifteen zombies he killed during the night. Then he writes with a red felt-tipped marker, right below Rachel's sequined "Zombie Killer Tally" title, that the contest officially began at midnight. Rachel will have no choice but to consider this arbitrary time as set in stone. Her perfectionist nature and the abnormal amount of pride she feels in everything she personally creates will not allow her to abandon this poster. She will have no choice but to respect the validity of Kurt's devious move.

Oh, of course he knows that Rachel is going to react to this obvious incitement with as much competitive spirit as is in her diminutive frame. And he has a feeling that he's going to regret it eventually. But Rachel needs something to work towards, and so does he. She needs to kill the most zombies and gain that adoring audience that she yearns for, and he needs to help people retain the will to live. He hopes that one day they appreciate it. Because he's far from done. This is far from the final step. If it's the last thing he does, Kurt Hummel is going to please _everybody_.

He puts a red star next to his name for good measure. It'll make Rachel _die _to get out there and start killing zombies, and it also fits because red is the color of blood, and Kurt intends to spill a lot of that.

And, okay, so maybe he's a little bit into the whole competition thing, too.

* * *

Will is used to waking up early, and apparently his body clock is so in tune that it has decided to override his more pressing biological needs. Every nerve in his body is wailing for sleep, but his brain refuses to turn back off and ignore the sunlight streaming in through the dusty broken shades.

He reluctantly cracks his eyes open and stares at Emma, stares at where her hair is falling over her face and her breath flutters it just a little. He wants to push it back. He wants to reach out and touch her skin. But there's a barrier there, no matter how much she says it's okay. Because part of her will always be afraid. And part of him will always feel guilty about how he felt back when his wife wasn't a casualty of this horrible and unexpected war. Even now he feels guilty, because losing Terri hasn't made him care for Emma any less. It just makes it hurt more.

He feels sick and torn between leaving the room and kissing her on the eyelids, but she opens her eyes before he can choose. All thoughts of moving go out the window. Because something about the way she looks at him just freezes him in his tracks. She's smiling at him, that sleepy smile that he recognizes as the one that Terri used to smile at him in the mornings before she'd remember all the various grievances he'd apparently accumulated through the course of the earlier day. It was the smile that said she didn't remember what had happened to their marriage after years of misuse. And for a moment all she knew was that she was lying beside him, and she was happy.

But that smile disappears so quickly from Emma's face that it's as if it had never been there at all. And something about that one tiny moment is so beautiful and poignant that he thinks it might make him fall in love with her if he doesn't watch out. Because there are a lot of things about the zombie apocalypse that are hard to swallow, and he knows that losing Emma will be one of those things that will be impossible if he lets himself care about her more than he already does.

So he stifles the words that want to burst forth from his mouth, and he quickly gets to his feet.

"So, uh," he starts, at the same time as she stammers something unintelligible. He quickly reaches for his nearby shirt and throws it on. "Sleep well?"

Emma freezes, her unintelligible stammer gone completely. She blinks her giant, bush baby eyes twice before tilting her head to one side like a dog that hears a high pitched noise. And Will just _knows_ instinctively that he's said the wrong thing. And he doesn't want to say the wrong thing, because the time for saying the wrong thing is _so _over. Everything he says now has to be perfect. And he doesn't know how to explain it, but he feels more pressure than he ever did before with Terri. Even when he thought she was pregnant. Even when he thought that he had to provide for the love of his life.

"I'm sorry," he says before she can say anything. "I don't really know how to handle this, you know? I don't know what this means. What we're supposed to do."

"It's okay, Will," Emma says, sitting up and smiling at him with that damn angelic smile that always makes him feel like he couldn't do wrong if he tried. "You don't have to try and make me feel special. We didn't do anything. We just slept."

She sounds bitter.

"Did you want it to be anything more, Emma?"

And now she seems surprised by the quiet question, and Will's starting to wish that this whole Woman thing came with a manual. It was _easy_ with Terri, because he'd been with Terri for forever. This is different. _So _different. Even _without _the zombies and the too-recent and too-fresh death of his wife, it would be different.

"I'm sorry? Do I want it to be anything more?" She pauses, and her tone is so much like the tone she uses with uncooperative students that he's _almost _a little offended. "Will, I've had you pegged as an observant and sensitive soul who understands the wants and needs of others, so why don't you tell me? Tell me if you think I want something more."

Will knows that this is the moment when it all comes together, so he takes a deep breath before he starts. And then he prays that he doesn't screw this up. And then he says, "Yes. I think you want this to be something more. Something that will sweep you off your feet. But I also think you're scared. I think you don't know how much you want, how far you want this thing to go. Terri and Ken are dead, Emma. And yes, maybe we _do _owe it to their memory to wear black and grieve and sulk, but I don't want to do that. I miss Terri already. I miss the hell out of her. But she's dead, and I'm not, and you're not. And why can't it just be that simple?"

Emma smiles and looks down at her hands, twisting in her lap.

"Will, I know you've liked me for a while. Or at least admired part of me in some way. I'm not suggesting that you were at all mentally unfaithful to your wife, but you at least had acknowledged my potential compatibility for romance and…stuff. And I'm glad, because I've always found you so attractive, and I like how you see things that I thought I was alone in seeing. And I like how you need pep talks and actually _listen_ to my advice. And this is the end of the world, so I'm willing to concede to your ideas about grief. We may not be long for this world, and to grieve the people who have already left it seems almost selfish. We should use the short time we have left. I agree. But there are some things about me. About my aversion to messes. Things I haven't told anyone."

"What do you mean?" Will asks, and he's less-than-surprised to feel an actual physical chill snaking up his spine.

"Come on. I know you've noticed. I'm the girl who reads _only_ romance novels but skips over the racy parts. I wear rubber gloves _in the shower_. I hate touching things. I hate smelling things. I even hate _tasting_ most things, which is why I eat things that are very solid and nearly tasteless, like carrot sticks. Grapes are an exception, but sometimes I feel nauseas while eating them, and…oh, Will. I've never said this to anyone before. I'm not sure I can do it now."

"Something happened to you. Something other than your brother pushing you into the manure."

"That happened. It wasn't just a story. But…there's more, Will. I've never kissed a man since. Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

"No," Will sighs, sinking slowly to a seated position against the wall.

"But you…you were different. You were so kind and gentle and slender, and I felt so unthreatened by you. Every nauseas feeling you gave me was a good kind. And I hoped that it could lead somewhere. But last night, even the thought of lying beside you was enough to fill me with fear. And I'm sorry, I'm _so _sorry that this has to be so confusing. But I wasn't lying when I said last night that I want to be in this mess with you. I want to feel nauseas. I want to feel scared. I want to feel all these things I'm feeling, because at least I'm feeling something at all. And that has to be good, right?"

Will knows he should say something, but he can't quite find the words.

* * *

Puck thinks about knocking on the door to Santana's room, but then decides to just walk in. If he knocks, she'll tell him to go away. And he already feels humiliated enough, carrying her breakfast on a cafeteria tray. It doesn't help that he has no idea what he's supposed to do to help her. What he's supposed to say. When he was making her bacon, he thought about opening with a joke, but even _Finn _told him he was an idiot for that one. So he's back to square one.

Square one, apparently, means winging it. So he pushes open the door and _almost_ drops everything when Santana spins around from her place at the window and points a pistol right at his skull.

"Jesus!" he shouts, jumping back into the hallway and belatedly realizing that the doors don't close on their own so all he's really done is take a few steps back so it'll take the bullet another millisecond to reach him. But Santana just turns back to the window, and the pistol goes into the back of her pants. Her black tank top is riding up just far enough for that to be _completely_ sexy.

"Thought you were a zombie. Or Sylvester. Would have shot at either."

"Okay. Fuck. Come on, San. Sit down and eat some breakfast. You look like shit."

"I can still shoot you, you know."

"You could, but would that _really _make you feel any better?"

Santana pulls her eyes away from the scope on her rifle and cracks a broken smile in his direction. He takes that as permission to enter the room, and he gently lays the tray on the floor next to her mattress. Once he sits down in front of it, she crosses the room to him with the lethal grace of a panther or tiger or some other really big, scary cat.

She was intimidating _before _she lost her girlfriend and got access to weapons, so Puck isn't at all ashamed to admit that he's a little afraid for his life.

But she just sits down cross-legged in front of him and starts eating, Like nothing has ever gone wrong in her life.

"So what's the status report? I caught a few hours right before dawn. Anything happen that I should know about?"

"All quiet on the zombie front, if that's what you mean."

He smiles, and it's a little nervous but mostly just _concerned_ (because he really does care about her, no matter how much he's been trying to pretend to her face that he doesn't). He wants to hug her, but he has a feeling that won't go over too well. So instead he just sits dumbly in front of her and avoids eye contact.

She pauses mid-reach for some bacon. Tilts her head to one side. Like she's analyzing him.

"You totally fucked Rachel Berry."

He meets her empty eyes for the first time in this conversation. She's smiling, but it's a cold smile. A sarcastic smile. A smile that has so little humor in it that it might as well be a grimace. Like she forgot _how_ to smile or something. Maybe it's a little dramatic, but Puck _knows _Santana. He knows every curve of her body. Every twinkle in her eye and every synapse firing in her brain. He knows her backwards and forwards, and this is a very different girl. His primeval instincts are kicking in, and his mind is flashing red-and-white Danger signs.

But this is Santana. And part of him will always love her a little. Because what's not to love?

"You're freaking me out," he says honestly. Partly because she is, and partly because he doesn't know how to address her comment.

"Yeah, well fucking Rachel Berry is pretty high on the list of things I never thought you'd stoop to, so safe to say you're freaking me out a little too."

"Knock it off. Stop taking this out on us."

"So there's an _us_ now?"

"Jesus, San. I mean all of us. We're trying to help you out. I know that Brittany was…was important to you. But you can't just let this…"

"Let this _what_? Ruin my life? Run my personality? Too fucking late. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Pretend like nothing happened? Go back to fucking you and acting like we have anything in common other than the fact that we both like sex and are a teensy bit dead inside? No thanks."

"Well then what are you gonna do? Give up? Santana, you can't kill yourself over this. Brittany wouldn't have wanted it."

"Oh, don't you _dare _pull that drama club cliché bullshit on me, Puckerman. It doesn't matter _what_ Brittany would have wanted. She's dead. She's dead, and her body is a shell, and I don't believe in God or anything else that would make things better."

Puck sighs and glances to the door to make sure that no one's coming. He doesn't usually like being honest with people about what he feels deep inside, but he wants to be honest with Santana. Because Santana is his friend, and she understands him, and he thinks that maybe he could have loved her if only the universe agreed. Just like Quinn. Just like Rachel. There are all these paths leading to all these different girls, and Santana's path was so easy and without blockage. Except now it's hazy, and he has no idea what to say to her. So he just says the first thing that comes to mind. The honest thing. If Quinn was there, she would have been proud. Rachel probably would have cried. Will definitely would have cried. Puck, though, doesn't even realize exactly what he's saying, or why it would be such a big step.

"I get it, you know. I'm right there with you. I remember one time when my dad was yelling at my mom, he said, 'life is a story without a meaning. Just pages filled with words that don't actually _say_ anything'. And that totally stuck, because it's true. Life's a joke to people like us, San. People who don't believe in shit. But that doesn't mean it's a joke to everyone. _I _think we're all going to get eaten by zombies, and it'll be like our lives are just going to get blown out like candles or some shit. And sometimes I'll close my eyes, you know, like starting to go to sleep, and I'll try to think about what not existing anymore will feel like. It's like how other people imagine being in Heaven. I imagine not existing. And it's so weird and impossible that I always end up just imagining an endless universe of stars. That's as close as I can get. And sometimes it seems so easy, like I just want it to happen because none of it's going to matter. No one's life is _really_ going to matter. But it matters to _them_. They think there's something worth fighting for. And I don't _want _Quinn to think about life the way I think about it. I don't want Rachel to think that dying is the best way to go. I don't want _you_ to think that all this fucking suffering is for nothing. So I'd never do it. I'd never let myself just _not _exist anymore. Not if there was any hope left. When you care about someone, even a little, you gotta make them believe that their lives are worth something. Even if you believe that they're not. Because if no one believes they have anything to live for, we'd be just like those fucking zombies. And yeah, she's dead. But Brittany wouldn't have wanted you to give up. Because _she _believed in Heaven, and she'd want to see you there."

Before they leave the room, Santana will promise not to tell anyone what he said just as long as he promises not to tell anyone that she cried.

* * *

Quinn finds Rachel standing in the front hallway, motionless as she stares at the wall.

And it's not as if Quinn is _looking_ for her. But it's been hard to avoid Rachel ever since she started mooning after Finn, and it's even harder now that they're locked in this school with much higher odds of running into her. Except now it's maybe not such a bad thing. Maybe.

"What are you doing?" she asks to get Rachel's attention. Rachel turns and backs out of the way so that Quinn can see the Zombie Kill scoreboard they started working on yesterday. Kurt has marked off fifteen zombies.

"Kurt has apparently decided to start the competition without informing any of the other players. I should have brought it up before the horde descended on us, but I think I can be excused for thinking only of our lives."

"I think if you didn't, we'd have thrown you out a window," Quinn agrees dryly. Rachel, according to custom, fails to hear the insult in the comment.

"I wish that there was some way to _prove_ that he killed fifteen zombies. I'm not saying that I _doubt_ it. I'm just saying that perhaps he played with the numbers a bit. I didn't hear many gunshots last night, and there's something about the number fifteen that just seems too coincidental and clean, right?"

"I really don't care. And I don't think you should, either," Quinn sighs.

"Well, that's always been the problem, hasn't it? You don't care about any of my lifetime goals, and you think that I shouldn't care, either. Which translates into you tormenting me for completely asinine reasons like how I wear my hair or my dedication to singing."

Quinn tilts her head to one side and smiles a little. She knows that this whole 'wise mother-to-be' routine annoys some people (Puck, Emma, probably Rachel, definitely Santana), but she can't help it. She sort of likes it. And if Rachel can just decide to be a kickass zombie slayer, then she can be a kickass dispenser of useful advice.

"I know that you're only talking like this because you're upset about something. And I'm not going to take any of it personally."

It works, like it always does. It's hard to stay pissed at someone when they're being calm and rational. It makes you look like an asshole. And if there's one thing that Rachel doesn't want to look like in her current bid for the High School Savior role, it's an asshole. Rachel deflates, the anger that had been building in her all morning just flying out of her like a popped balloon. She leans against the wall and stares at Quinn with a strange expression on her face. One that is something between reluctance and fear.

"I'm debating whether or not to tell you what is bothering me."

"If you want to, go ahead. It's not like I have anything better to do with my time."

Rachel nods and looks down at her hands.

"The problem is that I'm not at all certain how far our newly formed friendship extends. Of course I'm grateful for the way you stood up for me when Coach Sylvester was contemplating shooting me. And I truly do believe that we have more in common than our social statuses have allowed us to explore so far. But I haven't had many friends, especially not _female_ friends. And I wish that I had, because I'd understand what protocol exists for this sort of situation."

"If you don't tell me, I can't tell _you_."

"I know, but I'm afraid that my revealing this information will make us less friendly than we have been, and I have to wonder if it would be worth unburdening myself. But at the same time, you trusted me with a much bigger secret, and I kept it. Fairness dictates that you should not be angry about this, but teen-themed movies and television shows have illustrated to me time and again that this is not always the case."

"Oh my God, Rachel. Just _please_ say it before my child dies of old age."

"I slept with Noah."

The words come out as if they're run together as one giant, multisyllable word. Rachel is totally expecting a punch in the face. But the strange part is that Quinn can't even be mad. She's not even that _jealous, _which is truly bizarre. Because it's not as if Noah Puckerman is uncharted territory that she had hoped to keep pure and her own forever. She showed up a little late to the party for _that. _And of course it's a little disturbing that they slept together right after Rachel found out about the truth of Quinn's baby, but if Rachel was going to try and capitalize on that secret in any way, it would be in the direction of Finn. _Not _Puck. Quinn is sure of that.

Still, there is a tiny tug on her heart, like her child is pulling on something down there to remind her that Puck is the _father_ of her _child_. And it was different when he was sleeping with Santana and other girls, because they were just _girls_. Quinn was different from them and they both knew it. But Rachel is different, too. Because Puck once said to Quinn that Rachel made him feel like less of a loser, and Quinn always knew that was something she'd never be able to do for him. Because no matter how sweet Puck is, and no matter how amazing a father he'd make (Quinn has a suspicion that he would make a fantastic one if she could bring herself to give him half a chance), she will always see him as the loser who got her knocked up and potentially ruined her life.

It's not fair, but it's true. And Quinn owes it to the both of them and their unborn child to at least be honest about it. And she owes it to Rachel to be honest, too. Because Rachel _trusts_ her for some reason. And even though Quinn sort of wishes that they were back at school hating each other because that would be way, _way_ better than dealing with zombies, she also doesn't want to lose what has happened between them. Because she's starting to feel like maybe this can be an actual friendship, and she needs all the friends she can get. Especially if her existing friends are just going to keep getting eaten by zombies.

"Okay," she says. Rachel blinks a few times and stops leaning against the wall, standing straight like she's ready for Quinn to pull out a gun and just blow her away.

"Okay?"

"Yes. Okay."

"So you're not mad?"

"I'd be lying if I said I felt _nothing_. But I'm not mad at you, and I'm not mad at him. I don't have any _claim_ to him. Because he wanted me to give him a chance, and I didn't. I had my shot at Noah Puckerman, and I threw him back when I was done. I don't get to reel him back in just because some other girl wants him."

"Based on my admittedly rather sparse knowledge of teenage social situations involving ex-boyfriends…"

"Learned from what? _Mean Girls_ showings on ABC Family? Look, Rachel, not to be a huge bitch, but it's not like you've ever actually dealt with this before. And anyway, Puck isn't my ex-boyfriend. Puck is a boy that I slept with, foolishly, and let myself get dragged into a disgustingly clichéd situation as a result. He's a nice boy, and I'm glad that I've gotten to know him better because he can actually be sort of sweet, but if anyone has claim on him, it's you. _You _dated him. He gave up football for _you_. And you both want things you can't have. And I guess it's sort of sweet that you can deal with it together."

And, okay, so maybe that was a little less honest than she'd intended. But it's the thought that counts.

* * *

Once everyone is awake, the group convenes in the science room upstairs where Santana spent the night. It's never explicitly _stated_ that they're meeting there because it's where Brittany died, but everyone's pretty sure that's the reason. Especially since it's Sue who called the meeting, and especially since she's looking very serious.

"Apparently you all made it through the night. How fantastic. Since you're forcing me to babysit and risk my life just by continuing to breathe through your mouths around me, you're all going to listen very carefully when I tell you what to do. First of all, you all are pathetic, soft-bodied losers with absolutely no chance at beating even a legless zombie in a hand-to-hand combat situation. So what I'm going to do is set up a training area in my gym not unlike the one I set up for my Cheerios. Santana and Q should be fine, since I've been subliminally preparing them for this moment all their cheerleading careers. But the rest of you, you're going to take shifts and meet me down in the gym for practice. When you're not on guard, sleeping, or eating, I expect you down in that room, which will be hereby known as my office."

"Sue, that's not fair," Will protests.

"William, I never thought I'd have to stoop to saying this during a zombie apocalypse, but apparently the shellac you used on your hair is blocking out the sound of my voice along with common sense. Let me lay it down for you nice and loud: _life is not fair_. Especially not now. And I don't care if they want to sit around in a circle and harmonize about how zombies are scary and Sue Sylvester is the boogeywoman. If they want to survive, they're going to do what I say. And even though I wish a zombie would just eat you and get it over with, I'm extending my mandatory invitation to you. You want to protect these kids and cradle their feelings in your doughy, muscleless arms, then fine. Cradle all you want. But you'll need to be cradling them in the conditioned arms of a killer if you're going to last another day out here in the wild. Now, I'm going to take my car down the street to stock up on provisions. Alone. If anyone tries to follow me, I'll give them a first-hand demonstration of just how effective my combat training will be. And by no means should anyone consider that an invitation. That was a threat."

She storms out of the room before anyone has a chance to reply, leaving them all behind in stunned and confused silence.

"Do we really have to do that?" Emma asks. "I don't think I'm suited to rigorous training. All that sweat."

"Yeah, and I think I could take on a zombie just fine, Mr. Schue," Puck points out. Finn nods.

"Oh please," Santana sighs.

"What? Come on. You think I couldn't take it on?"

"No, I don't think you could." Santana spreads her arms apart like explaining this is the most difficult thing she's ever done in her life. "Look, conditioning for football and conditioning for close combat are two completely different things. You can't just _tackle_ a zombie. You can't just steal his football and run away, or whatever. You have to neutralize him."

"What was she teaching you girls?" Emma asks disbelievingly.

"She was teaching us how to defend ourselves," Quinn puts in. "She told us that little boys grow up used to having everything they want handed to them on a silver platter."

"Yeah, and she said that our bodies shouldn't be on that platter. And we should use that platter to break their noses if they ever try to take it."

"It's true," Mercedes says.

"Right, like _you'd_ know," Santana scoffs.

"When I tried out for Cheerios last year, Coach Sylvester told me there was no way I'd have the endurance required to kill a grown man, so there was no reason I should even bother trying out for Cheerios. She only picks Amazons for her team, and it's not just because they need to make a pyramid. Coach Sylvester is hands-down crazy as shit about her self-defense lessons. So _yeah_, I _do _know."

"Whatever. Coach Sylvester is a horrible human being, but what she was doing for us was the _right _thing, okay? Maybe it was unnecessary, but now I know how to take down a grown man who feels no remorse and for whom physical pain is not an issue. Which means that I'm fully prepared to take on a zombie at close range. None of you can say the same. No offense, Q, but your baby fat doesn't exactly make you the best zombie killer in the school, you know?"

"I don't even see why this is an issue!" Rachel exclaims, her panic obvious. "Clearly we have enough ammunition to last us a while. Shouldn't that be enough? And it's not as if there are no other weapons available!"

Finn shrugs, his natural optimism again shedding light on a rather gloomy situation when he says, "I don't know, maybe this isn't such a bad idea. If there are any other survivors out there, I'm sure they have weapons too. And they're going to need ammunition soon. There are a lot of gun stores here, sure, but how many of them are still going to actually _have_ guns in them? I don't think there will be a lot. I think basically we're on our own. And there's no harm in all getting a little stronger. We're not going to survive by swinging baseball bats and axes and hoping for the best. We're going to survive by being prepared for every situation. It's just like Rachel says. We need to be prepared for apocalyptic talent when we're facing the competition. Only now we need to be prepared for the actual apocalypse, and zombies."

"I made lists," Emma offers, smiling brightly. Will puts his hand on her arm and forces his mouth to curve upward at the edges, although he's not too sure it qualifies as a _smile_. He's not sure anything he could manage at the moment would qualify as a proper smile. He can't actually imagine managing a real smile ever again. How _can_ they smile, with everything that's going on around them. And he knows that before, before the world practically exploded with horror, that things weren't exactly perfect. There were people suffering in other countries, suffering even more than they're suffering right now. There were people dying for things like religion and money and pure human cruelty, and that was horrible. But it always seemed so distant. That was his privilege; his birthplace, his race, and his gender allowed him to feel distant from it. And he was always acutely aware of that. But that's the thing about zombies. They don't discriminate. They don't pick and choose who to kill based on what their skin looks like or what genitalia they're packing. Zombies only care about who's closest.

Kurt can see that Mr. Schue is feeling lost. And when he looks around the room, he can see that they're _all _looking a little lost. Santana is lost without Brittany to feel smug and superior with. Quinn is lost with the realization that her baby might be the death of her and not just in a social situation way. Finn and Puck are lost without the usefulness of their football-buff bodies because it's not like zombies care how big your biceps are. Rachel is lost because her skill at marksmanship might soon prove useless. And everyone else is lost because this is already overwhelming enough without the addition of another thing to feel overwhelmed by.

So Kurt steps up. It's kind of his thing in times of crisis. He knows that people don't really listen to him most of the time about important things. Everyone in the group has a niche of advice soundbytes (Quinn and sabotage, Rachel and the history of show business, Puck and the location of illicit substances for purchase). Kurt's thing is _supposed _to be fashion advice. He loves fashion, he loves taking care of himself, and he loves looking good. That's true. But that doesn't mean that's all there is to him. He also loves being in charge and giving orders. And he likes cheering people up. Putting smiles on the faces of people who fear they'll never smile again.

"Guys, come on," he says with a wry grin. "Coach Sylvester is giving us a way to make us less afraid. She's going to help us survive. There's nothing wrong with that, right? Think of this as like a weapon that'll never run out of bullets. I know _I'd _feel better if I thought I'd have a chance in hell at ripping a zombie's head off with my bare hands. I'll be in the first shift with her in the gym, if anyone wants to join me."

Mercedes smiles at him across the room, and Kurt smiles back.

* * *

Puck doesn't _want _to want to have alone time with Rachel. But he _does_ want to have alone time with Rachel. He wants to talk to her. Not in a 'let's talk about our feelings way', but in a 'how are you feeling about this whole zombie thing' way. It's sort of impossible to think that he's learned anything in the day since the zombie thing started, but he has. And what he's learned is that it's way easier to listen to other people stress out than it is to have to sit alone by yourself and stress out. Because when he's listening to other people, their fears all sound so stupid. Something about saying things out loud always takes away some of its bite. So when Quinn says that maybe she could love him, it doesn't have the power it does when he thinks to himself that maybe he could love her.

So when he finds Rachel sitting forlornly in the front hallway, marking six zombies on her tally (she and Kurt are still the only people who have numbers up there, despite the fact that they've all been killing zombies all morning and it's almost noon now) he clears his throat in the most obvious way possible.

Rachel looks up and smiles with absolutely no sincerity behind it before going back to staring at the tallies and frowning. Puck sighs.

"_What_? Are you really that upset that Hummel has more kills than you?"

"There's no proof that he does!" Rachel exclaims, holding up her hands like she's trying to defend herself. "He's doing this to incite me to action and I know it. Although I'm offended by his assumption that his use of red stars will rile me more than simple tally marks would."

"But they are, aren't they?"

Rachel hangs her head and sighs before asking, "What do you want, Noah? If you want to talk about last night, I'm not feeling up to it at the moment, but I'm sure we can discuss it later. Sometime."

"Yeah? You saw how well avoidance worked out for Santana, didn't you? Telling Brit all that stuff on her deathbed? You sure you want me to go out without knowing how much you think I'm a stud?"

That gets a sad smile, and Rachel turns to look at him. For the first time, Puck can see how tired she is. There are rings under her eyes that look like something out of a nature documentary on rabid raccoons. Her hair is knotted and matted, and her skin is covered in sweat. She washed up last night, but there's still a smear of dried blood on the back of her neck. Puck sort of wants to get a wet cloth and wash it for her, but something about that feels really intimate and weird. Nevermind that they had sex last night. This would be different.

"I'm just…I'm running out of direction," Rachel says quietly. Her voice is soft and honest and has none of that brash, bossy quality it usually does. This is the Rachel who reminded him that he'd get a slushie in the face every day if he stayed in glee club. This is the Rachel who washed his hair and sat on his lap and took the news of his dumping her like a pro. This is the Rachel who told him that she wanted everything too much. And as much as the other Rachel amuses him with her loudness and her crazy, this is the Rachel he might be able to love one day. And it scares him how much his stomach hurts when he hears her talk like this.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"I mean, look at me. Counting up zombies that I've killed. It's the only thing I _can_ do. I need a _goal_. I need something to _work _towards. Before it was stardom. Tony. Oscar. Emmy. Grammy. The four goals I needed to reach before death. But now what? Survival? I need something a little better than just continuing to breathe. Playing video games, watching movies, reading books…that's good enough for now I suppose. I could make my goal a more passive one. Scour every piece of available media. Then perhaps I could write something of my own. Write a song, perfect a performance to give to the group. But what then? Sooner or later, I'll run out of reasons to keep fighting. And given how I'm feeling at this moment, I'd have to guess that the moment will come far sooner than not. And I don't know how I'm expected to live with that."

"I don't know. Killing zombies is a pretty fucking awesome goal."

"Yes. It is. But what if I can't beat Kurt?"

"The world isn't gonna run out of zombies, Rachel. You'll always have time to beat Kurt."

Rachel shrugs her consent at that, trying to act casual even though Puck can see the way her face lights up when she thinks about it.

"I guess it's a little ridiculous to be worrying about something like this. But that's never stopped me before, and I can't imagine where the logic would be in changing that now."

"That's the Rachel I know," Puck says with a smile.

"I mean, my default plan to fix things has always been to sing about it, or to sing to someone, or to in some way sing and make the world a better place. I literally have no other moves."

Puck sighs, and Puck _knows _that he's going to regret saying this in like ten minutes, but he says it anyway. Because he _likes _Rachel right now, and that makes him totally fucking powerless. He has no choice but to do whatever he thinks will make her happy. And in this case, he thinks that the only thing that can make her happy is saying something that he absolutely never thought he'd say before.

"You know, just because singing isn't going to help fix _everything_, that doesn't mean it won't help fix _some _things."

And he was right: he does regret it. Because then she starts talking, and then she won't _stop _talking, and then he starts feeling nostalgic for the awkward silence this morning when he first woke up. And then his neck starts hurting from disinterestedly nodding so much, so he just gives up and walks away.

* * *

Sue's trip to the outside world is a massive success. First, she gathers Intel on the state of things outside their pathetic little stronghold. And the status is, as expected, a complete shitstorm of unholy proportions. She's embarrassed to be a member of the human race. Bodies litter the street like it's the morning after Mardi Gras. Houses have been demolished by the hungry hordes trying and succeeding to reach the people inside. Even _guns _are just lying around, and Sue would probably be frustrated about that if it wasn't such a rewarding feeling to pick up a weapon and toss it in the back of the truck.

And even though the world outside is in a sad state, Sue gets to look forward to crushing Rachel Berry's ridiculous hippie commune optimism about the survival of some sort of government in Lima, and her various speeches about how togetherness and show-stopping talent are all they need to survive. And maybe then Q will stop acting like these mouth breathers have anything valid to offer.

Second on her checklist is gathering enough supplies to make their defendable position a veritable _fortress_. Luckily for Schuester and his gleeks, Sue was the kind of child who built her pillow forts with plywood bases and a smattering of booby traps just in case. Her house is loaded with the kind of theft-deterrents that would make King Tut weep with the frustration of inferiority. And she knows exactly what she needs to get to make the school a zombie's worst nightmare.

Once her recon is completed, she takes a few more spins around town to try and scout out any other survival strongholds. There are none.

Sue Sylvester doesn't like to feel things like negativity. She doesn't like to have reason to. Her life is categorized by successes and successes _only. _Winners don't have to feel bad things, because winners have life easy. It's always been that simple. But seeing all those empty houses is for some reason more horrifying to her than the zombie horde in all its glory. It's more frightening. Because those empty houses used to hold families. Families filled with saccharine-sweet families of four and their minivans and their ridiculous decisions to settle for everything that was _average_ in life. Sue hated them. But now they're not there anymore. And for a full two seconds, Sue feels remorse.

* * *

"I think that we need to work on a musical number."

Quinn groans and tries to stand up, but her knees don't want to work and her back is killing her, so she ends up just plopping back down into her seat with an infuriated and disgusted expression on her face. Santana _does _get up, but Rachel scampers across the room to block the exit.

For some reason, Rachel decided only to let Quinn and Santana in on her stupid plan. And at first Quinn was a little excited, because it sounded like it was going to be something cool and secret and _useful_, and she was glad that someone was asking her to _do _something (because apparently being halfway to giving birth means you're like, worse than crippled or something). But of course it ends up just being about Rachel trying to get attention.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Berry? I will crush you. Get out of my way."

"Just listen, please! Everyone is terrified, and they're uncertain about what to do, and they don't have any source of inspiration. Only Coach Sylvester is unafraid, and she's hardly a good model. I was talking to Noah earlier, and he said that while singing can't fix everything, maybe it can fix _some _things. And morale is one of the things it can most definitely fix."

"Why would I care about the _morale_ of the group?" Santana asks pointedly, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at Rachel defiantly.

"Well, because you don't want to die. Because you want to kill all those zombies out there. Because you don't want everyone to give up and let you down."

"Well yeah, obviously I think you're a bunch of spineless losers who seriously need to learn how to take care of yourselves. But singing isn't going to turn you idiots into warriors. _Nothing_ is going to turn you idiots into warriors. Coach has had two years with Quinn and I. You don't even stand a chance."

"But that's the thing. I believe that singing _can _help boost morale. I've picked out a song that I heard on Kurt's iPod last week, and I think that if we perform this number in a satisfactory way, it will be at least moderately inspirational for the group."

"Is this _really _what we should be spending our time on?"

"As opposed to what? Sleeping? Watching the _Family Guy _DVDs that Noah gathered? Shooting zombies from the top windows and wasting bullets? Until Coach Sylvester comes back with her reinforcement materials, we have nothing important to be doing."

Quinn sighs and asks, "What's the song?" in a tone that reminds Santana of her old babysitter. It's almost a little sweet, how people have been _indulging _Rachel in all these crazy things instead of just flat out dismissing her like they would have yesterday. Except it makes it a lot harder for Santana to do the same, and she hates that.

"It's called _Teeth_, and it's sung by Lady Gaga. While there are other songs of hers that are more easily recognizable, I think that this song can capture our emotions if we infuse our performance with enough sensual power. For me, Lady Gaga's music represents taking control of yourself and becoming who you want to be. This is a message that cannot be ignored today. We all need to take control and _be _the people who can survive this horrible situation. And the three of us, I think, have managed to do that better than anyone else here. Quinn, you have always been strong. But you are facing more than any of us can even conceive of. Santana, you've lost so much and it has only made you more ferocious and determined to survive. And since my hand-eye coordination and Texan relations have made me something of a natural marksman, I've become a girl who I never thought I could. I've adopted the persona of a killer. A warrior. We're _all _warriors. And if we sing this song, and if we present it in a way that highlights this power that we have, then I think it will inspire others to harness their own inner warrior."

Santana sighs and asks, "Why couldn't you have just said something that would make it sound _really _boring? Now I sort of want to do it."

* * *

While Rachel, Santana, and Quinn begin choreographing their song and dance routine in the rehearsal room downstairs, the day continues on without incident. Sue, Jacob, Puck, Will, and Mercedes work to reinforce the doors with the steel beams that Sue picked up. Mike, Matt, Finn, Kurt, Tina, and Artie watch _Family Guy_ on one of the large projectors in the science wing, laughing harder than they ever have watching the show, because now they have no reason to. Occasionally one will shoot out the window. But nothing interrupts the laughter, because they're so used to firing weapons already that it's become a minor irritation in the back of their minds.

_Everyone _is busy, whether doing something legitimately helpful or not.

No one is in Sue's office. No one is near the shortwave radio she set up.

No one hears the deep voice say, "Attention all survivors", and no one hears the instructions he delivers after.

Not yet.


	12. Jossed

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! You keep this story running.

* * *

**Chapter 12** - Jossed

Mercedes flips open her phone, and for the first time she sees that she has no signal. None whatsoever. And her battery is running low. Earlier, the only problem was that her parents weren't near a phone. There was always the potential for contact. But now it's dead air. She really doesn't know how her already-frazzled mind is going to react to these added barriers in the way. All she wants is to hear their voices. Is that really so much to ask?

"What's wrong?" Kurt asks, sensing that she's upset from across the room and wandering over with a steely resolve. Mercedes knows she should appreciate him more, because he's really been amazing, and she heard Quinn telling Tina that Kurt's dad died, and Mercedes should probably say something about that, but she can't. She can't, because that means talking about her _own _parents. And talking about her own parents means admitting that they might not _ever _call her back.

Knowing Kurt like she does, she has a feeling that he probably wouldn't really want to talk about it anyway. If he needed her, he would say something. But mostly, Mercedes thinks he needs to pretend like everything's okay. At least for a little while longer.

Seeing Tina's mom and step-dad like she did, Mercedes doesn't know how Tina can even smile ever again. She doesn't know how she can just act like she's all right. How _any _of them can just act like they're all right. Because they're _not. _But everyone is absolutely determined to hide it. Quinn keeps making comments about how _nice _it is outside, Mike spends most of his time dancing down the halls with an unwavering smile on his face, and Artie has been dissecting the series finale of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ with Tina for the past three hours. Not to mention the fact that Sue Sylvester gets a disgusting amount of pleasure out of training Rachel in the art of hand-to-hand combat, and Rachel is just as happy to be trained even though she still has no idea where her fathers are or if they're even still breathing.

Mercedes throws her phone out the window, sits down, and cries. And pretty soon, she's not sure why, but everyone else in the room starts crying too.

Even though she feels a little bad about it, she still thinks _fucking finally.

* * *

_

Will finds Emma standing at the end of the hallway upstairs, staring out the window. He wants to go talk to her, but for a moment he can't, because there's something so paralyzing beautiful about the way the light frames her. She's all in soft focus, like the light is _devouring _her, pulling her through the window and outside, up into the sky where she can no longer be hurt by anything. His breath catches, and for a moment he sees Terri standing there, standing in the open church doorway with her veil on her face and a bouquet clutched in her trembling hands. But when he blinks, it's Emma again, and she's looking straight at him.

He walks down the hall to meet her. He's not sure _what _he wants to say, but he knows that he has to say _something_. She deserves as much, and so does he. They need to make something work. Because Puck was right when he said that survival isn't the only thing that matters. Will needs a reason to live, and he's pretty sure that the reason is standing right in front of him.

"Hi," he says when he reaches her. She smiles and clutches her hands together and nods.

"Hi, Will."

"I…"

"Actually, if you don't mind…?"

He's relieved, and says as much. She laughs. It's all nervous and disjointed, and Will is struck by how much this is just like high school. The first time he talked to Terri, he almost cried he was so nervous. He felt like he had so many things that he wanted to say, but none of them could come out right..

But Emma speaks, and lets him off the hook.

"I wanted you to know, Will, that I've been thinking about our conversation this morning. I know that I overwhelmed you with my story. That's all right. It tends to happen, actually. That's why I typically don't tell people about it. The fact is, I have a lot of problems as a result, as you know, and they're problems that I never thought I'd be able to get over. There was no reason to. I thought, life is short, and why should I make myself uncomfortable for the comfort of others? Because I _like _the way I am. I like that everything I own is clean enough to pass hospital quarantine regulations, and I like that my life is so low-risk that I've been asked out on dates with three separate insurance claims investigators. But there is a reason to change, now. My lifestyle isn't going to work anymore, and I have to accept it. So I want to be different. I want to recover. I want to reclaim my life. So I thought, maybe, you know, maybe there isn't a more perfect way to do it than this. And I want you to know that I gave it a lot of thought."

And then she leans forward and kisses him, and kisses him, and _kisses _him.

* * *

Quinn had her doubts about this whole musical number thing, but she can't hide the fact that she's enjoying herself. Even though there's a watermelon strapped to her belly (okay, more like a honey dew melon at this point), dancing and singing always makes her feel so _powerful_.

She remembers one time in grade school she was friends with a girl named Melanie Richards. And one day, she went over Melanie's house and was _blown away_ by how fun her parents were. Quinn's parents were quiet, reserved, their displays of affection were restrained. Like they were trying to establish boundaries early. And maybe they were: trying to prepare Quinn for adulthood, when she wouldn't be able to rely on them for everything. But Melanie's parents didn't care about those boundaries. They were fun, they were free, they were _so _full of life. When Quinn and Mel walked into the house, her mother was dancing as she grilled burgers on the back deck. For a moment, Quinn could only stand there and watch her through the glass, smile growing over her face. She thought it was _so _weird, but in an awesome way.

She always thinks about Melanie and her mother when she dances. Dancing means opening every closed metaphorical door that you surround yourself with. Even if it's choreographed and planned out, it always looks better if you feel it. If it's _obvious _that you feel it. So she can just close her eyes, take a deep breath, and take a step back from all the stuff that governs her every move. She can just exist.

Something about the ability to remove herself from the situation is very vital at the moment.

"I think this is really coming along nicely!" Rachel exclaims, ruining the moment completely.

"I think we should be spending our time doing something useful," Santana quips, but she doesn't move. Quinn knows Santana enough to know that if she was _really _dissatisfied, she would just walk out. Santana is enjoying herself as much as she's able to, and Quinn cares about her enough not to say that to Rachel. Snarking at Rachel is just a necessary part of the process for Santana.

"Oh, well, I think that this is in _some _ways a good use of our time! After all, the number of zombies seems to have decreased, and I think that we should take every possible opportunity for lightheartedness. There are not going to be many moments like this one."

Quinn closes her eyes and tries to pretend that she didn't hear that. It's not like it's a novel thought. She's been thinking the same thing every time she kisses Finn or watches Artie and Tina flirting quietly in a corner. Things are only going to get worse. People are only going to die faster. All those people in the world…all those people, and they'll all be zombies soon if they aren't already. And Quinn knows, logically, that all those zombies aren't going to be traveling as the crow flies to Lima, Ohio. Even the undead have to realize there's not much going on here. But she can't help but imagine it happening. All those zombies coming in. Wave after wave. Forever.

"I can't deal with this," she states with a roll of her eyes. It's not entirely meant to be serious. She's not even sure why she says it. Santana looks at her like she's just been dropped off the top of the pyramid, and Rachel tilts her head to one side. She looks like a cocker spaniel, and it's cute even though Quinn doesn't _want _it to be.

"If you'd be more specific…" Rachel says in a voice that is actually really cocker spanielesque.

"Uh, impossible. Life sucks now. It's a fact. _But_, gun to my head, I'd say I can't deal with Santana's negativity."

She supposes that the hormones are _really _bad when you surprise even yourself with the stuff that comes out of your mouth.

"Ex_cuse_ me? I don't give a shit if you're pregnant. I will beat your ass _so _hard."

"I'm just saying, look, why _not_ do this? It's better than killing zombies nonstop. And I know this, because even _Finn _needs to take breaks from playing _Left 4 Dead _to watch _American Idol_. And no, I _don't _make him watch it."

"It's pointless," Santana says simply.

"According to you, _everything _is pointless, right? So why not do this? Why not just _accept _that this is something we can do to lift morale. That's _not _pointless. Because I don't care what you think about God or religion or my family, but I don't think you can seriously tell me you just want all those people out there to lose hope."

"Honestly, Santana, the fact that you've needed two very similar pep talks this early in the day makes me think that perhaps we should ask Tina to replace you."

Santana snaps into focus immediately, her eyes narrowing like laser sights on Rachel's deviously innocent face. And Quinn is _very aware _that Rachel is doing this on purpose, because it's totally her M.O.

"That bitch has two left feet. _And _her voice is _so _subpar."

"I agree with neither of those statements, but sure," Rachel says. "If that's what it takes to drive you. Yes. Undoubtedly. You are the superior being in every way. But if we must replace you, then we must replace you."

"You're just out of practice, that's all," Quinn says airily. "It's hard to keep up Cheerio's standards. Everyone knows that. You just slipped a little after you dumped Puck and started going after girls. It's perfectly understandable, and with some good hard work, you'll get back to your ideal potential. Shooting guns doesn't keep you in shape, you know."

Santana narrows her eyes at them like she _knows_ what they're doing, but she steps back up and doesn't complain about the pointlessness of the routine for the rest of the practice. And once or twice, she even smiles.

It's only a little one, but at least it's something.

* * *

Kurt is enjoying his role as the guardian angel. Making people happy is making _him _happy, and he's eager to keep that going. Dealing with himself, however, is a completely different musical number, and he's been trying to stay in a group for as long as humanly possible. But group showers? Not his favorite. He decides to sneak off in the middle of the day when everyone else is busy laughing at the zombies that keep falling over the tripwire that Coach Sylvester set up on either side of the driveway.

It's eerie in the locker room, and disgustingly quiet. Which normally isn't a big deal for him. Kurt was always the kind of kis who didn't _mind _being left by himself for a while. He was perfectly all right with everything in his head, and quiet contemplation never left him feeling guilt-ridden about his subconscious and conscious desires like it did to some people. He was never the kind of person who would go crazy for lack of company. If he was by himself, he made the most of it.

But now? Now it's different. Because the moment he has time to think, he thinks of his father. He thinks of the fact that he bashed his father's brains in. He thinks of the fact that he'll never see his father again, because he's _never_ going back to that house. Never. And even if he did go back, he's pretty sure that what's left of Burt's face is not enough for a positive identification.

He doesn't want to cry. He's aware that he cries entirely too much, and he's been trying to knock that off. If Quinn Fabray can reel in her hormones long enough to try and save Brittany from Sue Sylvester, then Kurt can rein in his rampant emotions even _longer_ (okay, so he's competitive, so what?). But he only really has to rein them in when no one else is around. After all, he's the only one who has to know that he broke.

So with that in mind, he allows himself a quick cry. But only a quick one, because he doesn't want to get out of control. If he lets loose completely, he's not sure he's going to be able to recover.

He's just so fucking scared.

He tries to focus on what he's going to do to help people. For Artie and Tina, he wants to create a romantic date in the cafeteria. He'd been learning how to make awesome spaghetti sauce from his dad before his dad started craving a _different_ sort of red and juicy, and he's pretty sure that Puck grabbed Target's entire supply of Angel Hair pasta. Add a few checkered table cloths, and he's on his way to recreating _Lady and the Tramp_ (a favorite Disney classic for both Artie and Tina. Not to mention anyone with a soul).

His efforts to keep Rachel entertained seem to be going smoothly. Mercedes is easy because he just needs to be _around _her to make it work. And he's been complimenting Finn a lot, which seems to be doing something to his self-esteem. It's a temporary fix, but it'll work until he can really get a plan underway. Swaying him to the gay side doesn't seem to be an option anymore (there are really too many zombies to put in a half decent effort, and Kurt wouldn't exactly know how to get started anyway), but he'll think of something. Hopefully without managing to bring he and Quinn any closer than they already are, but he can be a martyr if he has to. He can give them some sort of happy ending _if he must_.

Soon enough, he doesn't even feel like crying anymore. Because Kurt Hummel has always wanted to be Robin Hood (minus the tights and that ridiculous hat). And this is sort of the way to do it. Even if it means bottling his emotions for just a little bit longer. After all, Robin Hood never took any of the treasure for himself.

Admittedly, Kurt doesn't actually know anything about Robin Hood. But he's pretty sure that was how it worked.

* * *

Puck _knows_ that he's going to keep the secret of he and Quinn's sexing. Like, no question. Rachel made some valid points when she was basically telling him to keep being a total coward, and then of course there's the fact that he's too scared shitless of both Quinn and Finn to breathe a word. But he still feels guilty. And now that he's slept with Rachel, the guilt just keeps on building. Because, whether it's completely ridiculous or not, Finn _likes _Rachel. And Finn loves Quinn. And Puck _just so happened_ to sleep with both girls? Not fucking likely. The good news is, he doesn't think that he _consciously_ went after Rachel because of Finn. He went after Rachel because of that dream, and then he _kept _after her because she was sort of okay to hang out with when it was just the two of them (mostly because she liked to make out, and didn't try to get him to pray with her like Quinn did).

But subconsciously? Shit. Who knows?

So when he walks into the gym and sees Finn waiting for Coach Sylvester's mandatory kung fu lesson, he gets this instant 'oh shit' feeling in the pit of his stomach that isn't going to go away anytime soon. Not if his annoying-as-shit conscience has anything to say about it, anyway. So he walks up to Finn, sets his feet on the ground like he's _waiting _for Finn to hit him, and he takes a deep breath.

"I slept with Rachel last night," he says, and he _hopes _that his voice conveys the total feelings of shittiness that he has. Not because he slept with her (no, because that was awesome even though she was a virgin and that made him afraid for like three minutes that she was going to get pregnant, based solely on the fact that he has an undeniably shitty history with that sort of thing), but because he's somehow fucking up his best friend's life even _more_. As if he hasn't done enough of that already.

"Uh…what?" Finn asks. He looks like he's just been slapped.

"I slept…"

"I _heard _what you said. I'm not retarded."

"I know, man. I just…"

"You know what? I should have figured it out sooner. I _knew _you'd end up doing this. You _always _end up doing this. You thought Santana was 'a stupid slut' until I said she was pretty. You told me Quinn was a stuck up bitch, and then suddenly when I started dating her you got all weird and started acting like I stole her from you or something. And as soon as I kiss Rachel, you have _sex _with her. This is a serious problem! This is not okay, dude!"

"No, wait! Hey, listen, I'm a shithead. I know that. You know that. I'm pretty sure everyone who's never _met _me knows that. But you're my best friend, dude. And if that's gay, whatever, because it's true. And you're supposed to trust me and believe me and shit. So believe me when I say that _nothing _is going on with me and Quinn. And Rachel? Dude, you can't have both of them. And she's nice."

"You don't think she's nice. You think she's annoying. You said she makes you want to light yourself on fire."

"Yeah, man. She does. She _totally _does. And that's the best part, because she hates me, too."

"That can't be the best part. The best part is supposed to be butterflies."

"No, I mean…I mean, we don't pretend like we're perfect. Like, she knows that I'm an asshole. And I know that she's a diva bitch. And that's okay. Nobody's perfect, bro. And you've got Quinn on this shining silver pedestal all the time. She could snap off your balls and start wearing them as a necklace, and you'd still treat her like the Virgin Mary. And if that's cool for you, then whatever. You're happy, I'm happy. But I can't deal with that. All that pressure. She treats you like you're made of glass. Like if she does one thing wrong, you'll break into a million pieces. I can't live like that. I'm a fuck up. It's true. And Rachel? She _gets _that. And she's totally okay with it."

"I don't understand why you're telling me this. Are you just trying to brag or something? Because that's not cool. You _know _I like her. You can't just tell me all this and expect me not to be pissed."

"I knew you'd be pissed. But I didn't want to lie to you about it."

Finn blusters for a few more seconds, but can't seem to find the words for a cohesive argument. So he just smiles, but he doesn't mean it. Puck knows it and he smiles back while the guilt eats him alive. Telling Finn about Rachel is like slapping a bandaid on a missing limb. It is so far from solving the fucking problem, it's actually hilarious. Only he's not laughing, because it actually sort of hurts.

When did he start taking this shit seriously, anyway?

"It's fine, man," Finn says, even though Puck knows it's not. Finn shrugs, looks at the door and sees that Coach Sylvester is entering the room. "I mean, there's zombies and stuff. Important stuff. I can't be mad about this."

The thing about Puck, though, is that he's really good at reading Finn. He knows when Finn is full of shit. He knows when Finn is trying to pretend like he's not crying. And he definitely knows when Finn is pissed. _Especially _when Finn doesn't want him to know.

Finn is pissed. He's _livid_. Puck knows that, but Puck can't bring himself to care. He's always been a little selfish. And right now, he's feeling _a lot _selfish. He wasn't, not a second ago, but something's changed. Because Finn's lack of acceptance means that he's just supposed to drop what he's thinking about Rachel and move onto something else? Fuck that. It's the zombie apocalypse, and Puck sort of wants Rachel Berry a little bit.

So he says, "All right, cool. Just thought I'd tell you."

Maybe it's a little bitchy, and maybe Finn definitely notices, but Puck just turns to the door and waits for Coach Sylvester to start her mandatory pre-kung-fu-lesson rant. And he reminds himself to talk to Rachel when he gets out of this. If he wants her, then he's going to have to go get her. That's all there is to it.

Fuck Finn.

But only a little bit, because Puck can't really function without him.

* * *

Mike and Matt are on patrol again. It's pretty much the only thing they've done since they got to the school. Everyone just _assumed _that they'd be good at it. Which is weird, first of all, because it's not like _they're _the ones who play _Call of Duty _and _Left 4 Dead _nonstop (Mike doesn't even _own _an X-Box, and Matt's more of an _Oblivion _kind of guy), and second of all because it's not like _anyone_ is 'good' at patrolling the hallways to make sure that zombies don't get in. That's not exactly a skill someone just _has_ prior to any sort of extensive experience.

Mike and Matt don't mind, though, because they get to feel like they're being included in something. Maybe in the backs of their minds they know they're just second-string to the rest of the kids, as usual, but that's okay. The glee kids are nice, but there doesn't seem to be a lot of wiggle room when it comes to their tight-knit inner cliques. Which is too bad, because Mike and Matt do _really _well when it comes to tight-knit.

"Did you see that one I got when he was standing right next to the tree?" Mike asks as they round the corner and head down the back hallway. Coach Sylvester sent them down here to take a look at the monitors in her Janitor's closet, even though it's easier to just look out the window (Coach Sylvester and common sense are sworn enemies, though, so they figured it'd be easier altogether if they just did what she said to do without asking any questions).

"Um, dude, we were shooting into the _woods_. They were all next to trees."

"Yeah, but I mean the one where the bullet, like, chipped off the tree and it looked like the tree was bleeding. It was pretty cool."

"Oh yeah, I did see that one. You stole that kill from me, you bastard."

"Whatever. Oh, that reminds me! We should totally put our kill scores up on the scoreboard. We're the underdogs. Rachel and Kurt will never expect us. But we'll win."

"Are you sure we want to win? Rachel's scary competitive, and under enough stress I think she might try to put drain-o in our morning coffee or…"

Matt breaks off suddenly, tilting his head to one side and holding up his hand (in which he clutches a pistol) for silence. Mike stops walking, tilting his head in a similar direction.

"Do you hear that?" Mike asks, momentarily forgetting that it was Matt who stopped walking in the first place.

"Oh my God, dude, it's coming from Sylvester's closet," Matt breathes with uncontained excitement. He sprints down the rest of the hallway, a grin plastered across his face. He can't believe that _they _are going to be the ones to discover this.

They stand in the doorway and listen, grins growing, as the voice cuts through the light static.

"I say again, this is station Echo-Echo-Sierra, Captain Ballard speaking. Anyone out there, radio with your location, and we will send transportation if you are not able to arrange transportation on your own. For the final time, any survivors in the area _please _radio your location. This is Captain Ballard at Emergency Evacuation Services, please radio…"

"What do you think, Mike?" Matt asks seriously. "Are you ready to be a hero?"

"It's about damn time," Mike replies, and he picks up the headset.

Matt sticks out his hand and stops him, eyes growing wide.

"Wait, maybe…"

"What?"

"You think maybe we should get Coach Sylvester instead? She'll chop our nuts off if we screw up, and we're _bound _to screw up."

Mike considers for a moment, staring down at the black plastic heroism in his grasp. Then he lays down the headset and nods with a rather poignant amount of valor.

"Fine. Yeah. Let's go get Coach."

And then they take off running down the hall.

* * *

"We can't just _steal _the whole claw thing from Lady Gaga. Besides, that's not even a _Teeth _thing. That's a _Bad Romance _thing, okay?"

"It was a _Thriller _thing first, Santana! And I think that the claws are fairly appropriate given our situation."

"We're not fighting friggin' werewolves, _Rachel_. Look out that window and you won't see Taylor Lautner, or Michael Sheen, or even Russell Tovey. You'll see a bunch of clawless corpses."

"I'm not sure I know who Russell Tovey is," Quinn admits from her seat on the other side of the stage, bored almost to the point of passing out.

"Shut up. Whatever. _Twilight _is stupid anyway. _Underworld _is where it's at. And Russell Tovey? Is adorable. Get over it. Doesn't change the fact that zombies don't have claws."

"All of this is beside the point. We've included your rather vulgar hip thrusts into the choreography, so I don't see why we couldn't include _my _choice."

"Because every other fucking dance move is your choice, Berry! I swear, sometimes you live in a bubble of your own stupidity."

"And oftentimes I think that all your unnecessary tanning has fried the half a percent of your brain that is actually functional!"

Quinn sighs and is about to interrupt (their fights have been escalating steadily all afternoon, and even though she's grateful for the chance to rest her feet every once in a while, she's actually sort of anxious to perform this number and that won't happen if one of them is dead), but then the door slams open and Puck and Finn stand in the doorway.

Santana immediately dives for her weapon like some kind of wild creature. Rachel fumbles around, trying to find her gun beneath the various costumes they threw across the floor a few hours ago. Eventually she jumps up beside Santana, ready to go. Quinn, she stays where she is. Because she sees that the boys have big smiles on their faces. The kind of big smiles that can only mean one thing.

"Guys," Finn says with the dramatic kind of goofiness that Quinn absolutely loves about him. "We're about to get rescued."

* * *

"Well, maggots, the bad news is that we're _not _about to get rescued," Coach Sylvester says when she emerges from her janitorial closet.

"_What_?" Santana hisses, hands balling into fists.

"The guy on the radio _clearly _said…" Mike protests.

"Oh dear, we're taking advice from a man on the radio?" Emma asks nervously. "I know it was just a movie, but _28 Days Later…"_

"Shut it, Irma. Listen up. I just talked to a Captain Ballard who is apparently in charge of civilian evac for this area. He said that given my high-profile status as both a local celebrity and a valuable asset to the U.S. of A.'s armed forces, we should expect evac sooner than the rest. Unfortunately, they're a little backed up."

"Well that can't be a bad thing," Mercedes points out brightly. "That means there are a lot of survivors, right?"

"If you want to look at the glass of shit as half empty, fine. See it that way. But for every man, woman, or child that survives and takes up valuable time being air-lifted to the Canadian border, we wait another hour."

"How long did he say?"

"There's no guarantee he'll even make it back here."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't ask me to explain the government. You have to be deeply entrenched within it to understand what's going on. It's tiresome. Really, all you have to know is that they're aware of our presence, and they're going to eventually get around to rescuing me."

"Just for the sake of clarity, we're being evacuated as well, correct?" Rachel asks, eyes narrowed as she realizes that it's entirely possible that Coach Sylvester would leave them all behind.

"He didn't appear to have a problem with that, so for now we'll say yes. I just want you all to remember that _I'm _top priority. If lives are going to be laid down on the line, they'd better be laid down for me."

"Whatever. Can we go now?" Puck asks, more frustrated than he'd like to let on. He can't believe that they were so close. So close to being _safe_. To being able to pawn their responsibilities off on someone else. But at least they have something to look forward to. At least it's not just an infinite number of terrified hours. Not anymore.

"Dismissed."

Coach Sylvester retreats back into her closet, leaving the rest of the glee kids (and teachers, and Jacob) blinking in her wake.

"Wait!" Finn exclaims suddenly. Coach Sylvester reluctantly pulls the door open a sliver, glaring at him. "Where are we getting evacuated _from_? There's no way they can land a plane here, and the roof is too bumpy for helicopters. There's nowhere for them to land."

Coach Sylvester looks vaguely regretful, which is the scariest thing any of them have ever seen.

"I was hoping you wouldn't ask that."

They wait with baited breath while she looks at each and every one of them in turn. It's her scary expression (somewhere between the vaguely unsettling expression and the horrifying expression on the Sue Sylvester Scale of Terror), the one that she makes when she's trying to see if someone measures up to her expectations (they never do).

"Jesus, just _tell _us," Puck shouts.

"They need us to get to the hospital."

"That shouldn't be too bad," Jacob says hopefully.

"In Columbus."

The statement is met with deafening silence.

"I'm sorry, _what_?"Mercedes asks, although it comes out a lot less fierce than her usual level.

"We can't make it all the way to Columbus," Finn insists. "There's no way. We don't even have _cars_. And if we did, there are going to be about three hundred billion zombies between us and that hospital. We'll never make it."

"We have no other choice."

"Why can't they just come here?" Mercedes asks tearfully. "_Here_. We have a helipad on the roof of our hospital, don't we?"

Coach Sylvester sighs and looks down at the shotgun in her hands, shaking her head furiously.

"Okay, look. The truth is, Ballard isn't government sanctioned. There _is _no government. Now, I don't want to hear any bitching, any whining, or any crying for your dead mothers. This country is a history textbook now. There's nothing left except places like this."

"But Canada's okay, right? You said that Canada's okay."

Sue looks at Emma and for once doesn't call her Irma or Eema or even Ginger Bushbaby. She just says, "They're closed off, yeah. Somehow, our brothers to the north managed to hold the zombies off. No doubt through less-than-honorable means. I smell a conspiracy."

Puck groans.

"Closed off. So that means we can't get in, right? Except if this Ballard guy helps us."

"Don't act like that's such a difficult conclusion to come to. The facts are all right here, Puckerman. Ballard is just one man doing everything he can to help people like us. But that takes guts, skill, and a whole lot of gas. He's meeting another group in Columbus tonight. He's refueling there, flying back to Toronto, and dropping off his border jumpers. He'll be back for us in three days. That's the _truth_."

"Why'd you say that other stuff, then?" Tina asks with some of Mercedes' missing fierce.

"What's the point in getting your hopes up? Then when he doesn't save us, you'd all sit around whining about how your lives are unfair and no one understands you."

"Three days? That's all?" Rachel asks with excitement, clasping her hands together like Coach just told her she won an Oscar and not three days of zombie-filled hell.

"A lot can happen in three days," Will reminds her heavily.

"Well of course! A lot can happen in five minutes, as we've unfortunately learned several times already. But three days. _Three days_. That's so much more comforting to say than 'whenever we are rescued'. I mean, we have a _date_. There will be an _end _to this."

"Possibly. I didn't like the sound of this Ballard idiot. For all we know, he could be a sadistic bastard holed up in a warehouse across town. Or he could be an incompetent pilot. He might never show up. Going to Columbus might be a bigger risk than it's worth."

"Well of course there are risks! But staying here, contained here…there are far too many risks for this to be a viable _option_. We need to move."

"No, we can't move," Finn says suddenly, looking terrified, looking like he's just realized the ramifications of exposing themselves to the full force of the zombie epidemic. "They'll kill us if we move. We'll never make it."

"You know what? We should talk about it tomorrow," Will says, stepping forward and smiling at them all. It's funny, he thinks, how easily he's forgotten how young they all are. He's expected them to be capable of making entirely rational decisions this whole time. But the truth is that they're just kids, and they're very irrational and emotional and _afraid_. They're supposed to be afraid. But he has to be the strong one. He and Sue and Emma (even though he's willing to give Emma a free pass on the whole strong thing, considering).

"Tomorrow!" Rachel gasps dramatically.

"_Yes_, Rachel. We have three days to figure out what we want to do. It only takes two hours to drive to Columbus. Factor in the zombie traffic, and we'll give it three or four hours. That's still a lot of time to prepare. A lot of time to think about things."

"Mr. Schuester's right," Quinn says quietly. "We should figure out our best course of action. We shouldn't just jump into anything."

Everyone's a little bummed now, which is understandable. But Will wants them to be pumped up. He wants them to see the good side of things like he does. Because even though they don't know if this whole rescue thing is going to pan out, at least they know it _could_. And at least they know that there are other people out there. People who might be able to help.

"We'll be safe," he says. And sure, there's a lot more that he could say, but he's satisfied to just leave it at that.

* * *

The students spend all day patrolling the halls. Tireless, they watch the perimeter for any signs of zombies. It's become strangely routine. They clean their weapons like Coach Sylvester showed them how to, they shout kill scores back and forth through the echoing building. They take turns showering, get dressed in warmer clothes, bundle in blankets as the cold settles in late in the afternoon. And all of them are thinking about Captain Ballard and his rescue mission. All of them are thinking about it, but no one really wants to acknowledge it. Like talking about it will make it less real. Like they'll realize it was just a fantasy all along, or something.

Puck thinks it's stupid. He wants to be talking about it _now_, but stupid Mr. Schuester told them that they had to wait until they'd had a good night's rest. As if that's even _possible_. He's not sure what the hell they're supposed to be thinking about, because as far as he can tell everyone else is pretty much zoned out of their minds too. And then he spots Rachel sitting by the front entrance, all alone, staring out the front door at the trucks and the blood smears and the excess carnage that they didn't feel like cleaning up (they regret that already, because it smells like ass and something tells him it's not going to get any better).

"Hey," he says, trying to sound as casual as possible. She looks up and smiles a little, but it's her fragile smile. The one that manages to make him do things that he didn't think he wanted to do. Like be near her at all.

"Hi, Noah."

"What, uh, what's going on?"

She shrugs and looks down at her gun on the ground. Her fingers lightly graze over the metal, and she sighs. The baseball bat holster is still strapped to her back. She's got one of his water bottles snapped into her utility belt. She's wearing his catcher's chest pad. Something about the fact that she took his advice so seriously makes him ache a little, but he's not sure why.

"I suppose I've been riding on something of an adrenaline high until this point."

"You were pretty bummed earlier, too."

"Yes, but then I was riled by the confusion of helplessness. Now I don't even feel that. I just feel empty. Which is understandable. There are very few zombies to kill, Santana insists that we have practiced our routine enough, and I'm consumed with thoughts of this man in the helicopter. The one who will most likely save us in three days, if only we can take the risk."

"You think we should go to Columbus?"

"Of course. I know it's silly, hoping that this will succeed. I'm no stranger to allowing my hopes to be built up, only to have it result in soul-crushing heartbreak. But the thought that there may be a place unaffected by what has happened here…it's maddening."

"Yeah. That's true, I guess."

"You think we should stay?"

"I think we could die, if we leave."

"We'll die if we stay, Noah. We can't last forever, here."

"We could last a while."

"You're right. Of course you are. I just…it's difficult for me to turn down this idea completely. To just say 'no' and let it go. I suppose it's obvious that I detest feeling as if everything is out of my power."

"I've noticed that, yeah."

"Well, moving towards rescue gave me something to plan. Something to do."

"What about your dance thing?"

"That's finished. We're performing it tonight. But you know that's not enough, right?"

"Yeah, I figured," Puck sighs. "Well, look, it's not like there's nothing to do here. And you're really good at shooting zombies, right? Even if we don't go anywhere, you'll be useful. I promise _I'll _never call you useless anymore. If that helps."

She smiles at him and leans closer, her lips curving deliciously into a smile he's never seen on her before. She's not smiling because someone has complimented her singing. She's not smiling because she has a cunning plan. She's just smiling because she's happy with him, and that makes his chest feel like it's all lit up or something. He likes it.

Part of him knows that he probably shouldn't kiss her, since she's feeling all vulnerable and shit, but most of him doesn't care. So he kisses her anyway.

* * *

They put on their show for the whole group. Mike and Matt stand guard at the doors, a broom jammed between the door handles to make sure that they're not surprised by any sneaky zombies while they watch the performance. Quinn, Santana, and Rachel stand on stage, dressed all in black, the lights above them red and hot. Kurt mans the music, Will sits front and center with a proud father's smile on his face (and it means a lot to all three of them, even though Santana rolls her eyes at him), and Finn and Puck sit together and revel in the fact that they're lucky enough to _know _these three girls (or _have _them, in Puck's case). Even Sue begrudgingly takes a seat in the back row, and Rachel _swears_ she sees her smile when the music starts (but it's hard to say, because no one has seen Sue Sylvester smile without malicious intent lurking behind those shark-like teeth).

Just as Rachel hoped, Santana and Quinn feel as strongly about the performance as she does. Their dancing, without stunts or fancy tricks or even Cheerios' flare, is raw and powerful. Quinn for the first time is able to move without the affectations that she has adopted in the past. She does not hold back. And even though they're all thinking of Brittany when they flip their hair (she was, after all, their expert in hairography), the dance is not meant to be sad or reflective. It is meant to be strong. It is meant to inspire. And Rachel thinks to herself as they slice gracefully into finishing bows, that there is no better time for inspiration to strike.

* * *

After the performance, everyone heads back upstairs to resume guard duty and start sleeping for the night. _Everyone_ is in a good mood (with the possible exception of Sue. They're still not sure about her). Spirits lifted, finally. Kurt hugs Quinn, brings tears to her eyes without even trying, and even gives Santana a brief squeeze around the middle before heading to the zombie tally to mark down some more kills (his personal mission isn't done until Rachel Berry feels _useful, _dammit. Although he sort of would like to win this thing). Rachel and Puck head back to their room, because Rachel has suddenly developed an interest in practicing _something _that Finn isn't really sure about, but it makes her giggle a lot and it makes Finn a little nauseas.

Finn and Quinn lag behind everyone else, and Finn waits until the hallway is clear before he takes his hands in hers.

"I want to say something," he says, and Quinn smiles because there's nothing quite as adorable as the straight-forward way he says everything.

"Better make it quick. I have to pee."

"Right," Finn laughs. "Um, okay. Now I'm under pressure."

Quinn smacks him good naturedly and brushes her hair out of her face, looking up at him expectantly.

"Go for it. No pressure. I promise."

"Okay. So, the thing is, I know that I've been weird. And not just because of the baby, but before that. I had a crush on Rachel, and it was really weird because I liked you too. And I couldn't figure out what to do about it. I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know that it was _possible _to like two people at once, but it was."

Quinn thinks of Puck, and thinks of the way he smiled when she told him that their child was a girl. She nods and says, "Yeah, it's possible."

"I've been really worried about it, because I want to love you and _only _you. And I didn't think that was possible. But tonight? I want you to know that I only saw _you_ up there. And I mean it. It's like Santana and Rachel were just invisible or something. For a minute, I forgot they were there. And that's a little mean, I think, but I mean it in a nice way. Not that they were _bad_, but just that I love you."

Quinn laughs and feels happy tears springing to her eyes. For all his faults (occasional dim-wittedness and a childlike naivety come to mind), Finn really _does _know what to say most of the time. And Quinn is getting pretty good at translating the stuff that doesn't quite make it from brain to mouth intact.

She stands on her toes, like she always does when she wants to kiss him. She smiles and closes her eyes halfway, looking up at him through her eyelashes and waiting for him to move forward.

And then, they hear a yell from down the hall. Kurt, the sound of a gunshot, squeaking sneakers on linoleum. And then a zombie comes around the corner and grabs Finn's shoulder, and grabs Finn's head, and rips Finn's throat out with his teeth.

And while Kurt shoots, and yells for help, and Finn falls to the ground dead with the zombie still attached, Quinn screams.


	13. Aftershock

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed!I continue to be blown away by everyone who likes this story. It's winding down now, probably only a few more chapters until the end. Hopefully I'll make you all proud.

* * *

**Chapter 13** - Aftershock

Everyone hears Quinn's scream. Everyone in every corner of the building. But Kurt hears it the loudest. He knows in that moment, as soon as he sees the zombie's canines poke into the too-delicate skin around Finn's neck, he knows that he's going to regret this moment for the rest of his life. If he had only moved more quickly. If he had only been less afraid to engage the zombie who managed to scramble over the truck beds and through the front doors. That zombie that had ignored the glaringly bright lights that reflected off the cool metal of Puck's pickup and had barreled into the school with rage so terrifying that Kurt, at the time, couldn't even breathe. He couldn't even think of moving.

This was not the slow-moving zombie of yesterday. Those zombies were fat and happy off their town-wide buffet. This zombie was hungry. So hungry that in its blind scavenge for food, it didn't notice Kurt, standing ramrod straight by the sparkling Kill Tally board, one thumb pressed into one red star beside his name. The zombie only heard the echoing whispers of Quinn and Finn down the hall, around the corner, just barely out of sight.

It was only when the zombie stumbled fully past that Kurt was able to move. And by then, it was too late.

So Kurt is crying as he shoots the zombie. Crying and swearing and apologizing to Quinn and Finn's corpse and his dad's bashed in face. It's not fair that he has to be in the place, with these people, with these _responsibilities_. It's not fair that he hesitated for only a moment, and that moment was all it took for Finn's life to end. None of this is fair. It shouldn't happen like this. It shouldn't. He's only fifteen.

_Fifteen_.

He's fifteen, and it's his fault that Finn won't live to see his not-baby smile.

It's not fair.

* * *

Puck and Rachel are halfway to undressed when they hear her. Puck's shirt is in Rachel's hand, and Rachel's bra strap is an inch from off, and they freeze for less than a millisecond.

"Quinn," Rachel breathes, and she whips her shirt back on so quickly that Puck misses the sight of it sliding over her skin when he blinks.

"Gun," he says, and she looks at him just in time to catch the pistol he tosses her. There's no time to load the big guns. There's only time to haul ass and keep breathing.

Quinn screams again.

Puck doesn't bother with his shirt, and he and Rachel run out of the room and down the hall. It's not the time for stealth or modesty.

Rachel almost steamrolls Artie as he rolls to a stop outside he and Tina's room, but she dodges around him and powerslides around the corner, making for the stairs like a recently uncaged animal. Puck lopes behind, jamming a clip into his pistol and turning off the safety.

"Quinn!" Rachel yells. "Quinn!"

Quinn screams again, and it's better than GPS because now Rachel and Puck both realize they're going the wrong way. They spin and charge down the remaining length of the hallway. They turn the corner.

Quinn is blood-splattered, hands raised in a defensive stance in front of her, and the hallway is a mess of carnage. Blood sprays on the walls, on Kurt, on Quinn, on Finn, and everything is a haze of red for just a few moments. But those few moments last forever, because Rachel and Puck are both waiting anxiously for Finn to blink. His eyes are wide and unseeing, staring at them with a look of confusion. Not even fear, not even pain. Just confusion.

It was quick.

"Shit!" Puck screams. "Fuck! What the fuck? What the fuck?"

"Are there any more?" Rachel asks, her voice thick with emotions she's trying not to show.

"No, just him," Kurt replies, and Rachel is hyper-aware of the tear tracks down his dirty cheeks. He scrubs at his face angrily, smearing blood from his hands onto his face. She swallows bile.

"What happened?" Puck asks. Rachel inches towards Quinn like one would move towards a feral cat, uncertainty shining through the tears thick in her eyes.

"He just ran by me," Kurt answers, resting his bloody hand against his bloody forehead like a damsel in Victorian literature. "Didn't even look at me. He heard…he heard Finn's voice, and he just ran. He was crazed, hungry. I don't know. I haven't seen any of them act like this before. I can't…I just…"

"Quinn?" Rachel says gently, reaching out and gripping Quinn's arms in her hands. Quinn's hands flap impotently at her sides, trying to shake away the blood or maybe the reality of this moment. "Come on, Quinn. Let's get you to the showers. Come with me, okay? We're going to get you cleaned up. We're going to get you away from here."

At least, that's what she _thinks _she says. What comes out is more a jumble of sobbed syllables.

Quinn's lip quivers, but she nods and allows Rachel to push her gently towards the stairs. The momentum carries her down the hall, and Rachel uses the opportunity to get close to Puck's ear.

"He might…" she says, tears choking her words and making them nearly unintelligible. "I can't watch that. Quinn can't watch that."

"And what the fuck am I supposed to do?" Puck asks. He's seconds from crying, but he can't do it here. Not in front of people. _Never _in front of people.

"I'm sorry, Noah. I shouldn't be asking you…"

"No, you're right. I have to do it," Puck mutters, even though he's secretly resentful for a moment. He _shouldn't_ have to do it. In a perfect world, _no one _would have to do it. Rachel stands on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck briefly, pressing her body against his like she's trying to force him to absorb her strength. He kisses the top of her hair and nods against her, trying to pretend like it's working even though it's not. No amount of strength, even Amazonian warrior woman strength, could prepare him for this. And Puck knows that once the shock finally wears off, it's going to be one hell of a painful night.

"Thank you," Rachel whispers, and she kisses him gently. This is utterly unlike any kiss they've shared before. This is familiar, comfortable. She is easy and careful and loving. Appreciating.

Even in this moment, she knows how lucky she is to have him. And it makes him want to fucking rip his own head off, because every time he lets himself like her a little, he's opening himself up to a world of hurt. Because the world belongs to zombies now, and they play nasty. Losing Finn is impossible enough to comprehend, even though it's already happened. Even though he's dead two feet away.

Rachel gives him one last long look and then hurries down the hall after Quinn, who is still wandering in the direction in which she was pushed. Quinn vomits and it splatters on the ground, but she keeps walking.

Puck turns to Kurt, whose tears are flowing freely. He doesn't really know what to say. He and Kurt don't get along (which is mostly his fault, okay) but he feels bad for the kid. He knows Kurt's blaming himself for what happened to Finn, even though it wasn't _really_ his fault. Even though Puck wants to beat Kurt half to death just to be able to blame _somebody _who's not a walking corpse, he knows it's not his fault. Blaming him isn't going to solve anything. Blaming him isn't going to wipe that horrible look off Finn's face and make him stop lying there like that with his blood all over the ground.

"Hey, uh, it's all right," he says awkwardly, but the withering look of disdain that Kurt shoots him is a little hard to figure out. He's just trying to _help_. And sure, so maybe he's been a huge asshole to Kurt in the past and hasn't actually done anything to apologize for that, because for some reason Mr. Schuester glossed over the fact that they were dickheads when he ordered the glee kids to accept he and Quinn and Santana as 'part of the group' and never really addressed it again. But still. He's _trying_. And his best friend is lying on the ground with his blood thrown in a truly disturbing radius, and he's actually _trying _to make Kurt Hummel feel better, so Kurt should appreciate it a little more. If Puck had his way, the whole fucking world would be trying to make _him _feel better, because there's no way Kurt feels worse than Puck does. There's no way he _can_.

But it's not like he can do much, anyway. Because he's shaking and so close to just passing right the fuck out that the room is starting to spin. Or maybe he's just trying not to cry – he's not sure. Everything just feels like shit, and he wants to go find Rachel, and hug Rachel, but that would mean going near Quinn and he's not sure that they can look at each other right now. He's not sure that they'll be able to look at each other ever again.

"Is he going to turn?" Kurt asks, lifting watery but stony eyes to meet Puck's own. Puck looks down at the glassy-eyed stare of confusion that's still on his best friend's face, and he shakes his head.

"I don't think so," he says, and his voice chokes up just enough that Kurt _has _to know that he's crying. Which is just such bullshit, because Puck just _knows _that Kurt's version of 'dealing' is going to be through spouting pithy barbs about everything he can, including Finn's death and including Puck's reaction to it.

But right now, Kurt just edges along the wall, trying to avoid stepping in Finn's blood, like it would be disrespectful or something. He slides a little, and Puck reaches out a hand. It's not really something he does on purpose. Not like he's consciously concerned that Kurt's going to fall, because by the time he realizes his hand's in the air, Kurt's already stable again. It's just that in this moment, Kurt reminds Puck so much of his little sister that he _has _to put his hand out. He has to keep Kurt from falling.

Kurt grabs his arm and Puck pulls him away from the bodies and the blood that mar the speckled linoleum tiles. He feels Kurt's arms wrap around his neck, and he awkwardly pats the kid's back and tries to murmur some quasi-comforting platitudes, but really he's just staring at Finn's face and waiting for it to grow murderous and hungry.

But it doesn't, because the blood loss killed him before the virus could. And the fact that that's _comforting_ makes Puck want to die.

* * *

Rachel and Quinn are halfway to the locker room when Quinn snaps out of her reverie. She tries to run back down the hallway, but Rachel intercepts, throwing her arm wildly into Quinn's path and managing to catch her around the shoulders.

"He might still be alive," Quinn sobs. "What if he's dying there, and I'm not…what if he's…?"

Rachel closes her eyes and immediately sees Finn's own staring off into the distance.

"No," she says as she swallows chunks of bile. "He's dead, Quinn."

"You don't know that. Are you a _doctor_? No. You're just a stupid girl with a stupid crush. He didn't even _love _you. He loved me. He loved _us_." She cups her hand under her stomach momentarily, but then her hands come up to push Rachel violently away. "Get away from me. I need to see him. He might still be…"

Rachel can't stop crying as she tries to contain Quinn, tries to keep her standing where she is. She knows that Quinn is a strong girl and that Quinn can take a lot of what life throws at her, but she's not sure _how _Quinn can handle the death of the boy she loves. And she's definitely not sure how Quinn can handle seeing the dead body that is all that's left of the boy she loves.

"Please," she sobs, trying to contain her emotions for just a little while longer. "Don't go look. Don't remember him like that, Quinn. Just remember him like he was, _please_."

Quinn stops moving abruptly, her hands cupped around her stomach again, but this time it's to keep from vomiting. Rachel catches her by the shoulders and wraps herself around Quinn like she's trying to transform into a comfort blanket. Like she's trying to conceal everything bad in the world from Quinn.

"How could that happen?" Quinn cries, pulling away to look at Rachel in a sudden moment of clarity. Her lower lip quivers and she bares her teeth at Rachel like a wild animal trying to protect their young. "How could it happen to _him_?"

"I don't know," Rachel answers, because she _doesn't_, because it all seems very unfair to her, too. Brittany and now Finn? Two people who did nothing to deserve it? She can't imagine a world in which that would be considered fair. She can't imagine anything at the moment at all.

"He doesn't watch out for himself. He was trying to protect _me_. The damn zombie wasn't even _going _for me. It was going for him, and he knew it, but he jumped in front of me anyway. He's so stupid like that! He's so stupid, and he doesn't even care about himself. He doesn't even realize that I'd rather _die _than let anything happen to him. He doesn't realize that he'd be better off letting the zombie kill me, because _now _what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to live without him? I love him so much, and he's lying there dead, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do. _Tell me what I'm supposed to do_!"

She clutches to Rachel desperately as the denial melts away and she's left with nothing but the pain of accepting that he's gone, that she watched the life ebb from his body in splurts and graceless fountains. She watched him die and could do nothing, and he's dead.

He's _dead_.

* * *

Everyone stands in a circle around Finn, waiting for him to rise. He doesn't, of course, and Puck tries to tell them that, but no one moves. They just stand and stare because they're not sure what else they're supposed to do.

"Was it quick?" Tina asks, voice trembling as she wipes at her wet eyes with shaking fingers.

"Yeah," Kurt says. "It was quick."

He finally detaches from Puck's side with those words, and he melts down the hallway to find Quinn, feeling his way along the wall like a blind man as he goes. Puck watches him, because really there's nothing else to watch, and he thinks again of how much Kurt looks like his little sister when he walks. So fragile and determined and stubborn as all hell, like the time she broke her leg playing soccer but pretended like she was okay. Stupid kid.

Puck swipes at his eyes.

"I'll take care of this," Will says gently. He's trying not to insult Puck's raging manliness, Puck can tell, because he's not as weepy as he normally would be. Puck sort of appreciates it, although he's not really in any sort of place to appreciate anything at the moment. He just nods and walks down the hallway again, turning his back on Finn for the last time. And God, it hurts like a bitch.

* * *

Rachel leaves Quinn with Kurt, because Kurt wants to take care of her. Rachel understands. Kurt wasn't able to save Finn, but he still has a shot with Quinn. He can still do _that_. She leaves after hugging Quinn again, and promising Quinn that she's going to be around if Quinn needs her – although she finds it unlikely that Quinn will. Kurt is more than capable, and he's a pro at bottling his emotions away until it's no longer necessary. Meanwhile Rachel can't stop sobbing about Finn and her fathers and Brittany and everyone she's ever met.

She exits the locker room and finds Puck standing outside in the hallway, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders slumped with defeat. She swallows her grief for just a little while longer. Puck has been strong for all of them. It's his turn.

She takes his hand and leads him down the hallway and into the abandoned nurse's office yet again. He blindly follows her as she pushes him towards the cot, and he drops into it with a sudden loss of energy.

"It's okay," she whispers. And she doesn't mean that it's okay that Finn's dead, or that they'll get through it together, or even that everything will work itself out in the end. She doesn't say that because it's not true. She only means that it's okay for him to stop trying to be strong.

He seems to understand, and he gropes blindly for her waist. At first she's horrified and believes he's trying to initiate sex. But then she realizes that he just wants something to hold on to, and she relents, allowing herself to be pulled forward and into the cot beside her.

His face, he buries somewhere near her stomach, and she feels rather than hears his sobs as he cries into her abdomen. She clutches his neck and the top of his head, stifling her own desperate sadness as she tries to cling to some semblance of calm. Of rationality. But all she can see is Finn's wide-eyed death stare. All she can hear are Quinn's heart-broken shrieks.

"Nothing will be the same again," she cries, and she buries her face in Puck's sparse hair, her eyes dripping tears onto his head.

They cry together, and neither will mention it again. Neither will allow themselves to think of themselves as weak for needing the moment. They just can't. Because Finn meant the world to both of them. And he's gone. There's no escaping that.

They both know that they will have to be strong for the others. It is expected of Puck, and Rachel expects it of herself. But for a few brief moments, they are allowed to simply exist for each other.

* * *

Twelve hours later, Kurt emerges from the locker room to report that he's not sure how to get Quinn on her feet.

"She won't get up," he frets, hands scrambling at each other. "She's just _lying _there. I thought she'd fall asleep, or cry, or _something_, but she's not doing anything."

"Is she _breathing_?" Artie asks, and he tries to explain that he wasn't being mean or joking when everyone turns and stares at him, but he can't overcome his sudden paralyzing nervousness enough to say much more than a squeak and a few stutters.

"She's breathing. And blinking and I'm pretty sure her heart is still pumping, but other than that it's like she's not even home."

"Her boyfriend just _died_," Tina reminds Kurt pointedly. "It's been twelve hours. She's probably just…"

"Wasting away in the pits of despair? Well that's not exactly acceptable, is it?" Kurt snaps. No one says anything, because they all know that he's tired, and he's blaming himself, and he's just spent twelve hours watching a breathing, blinking, but otherwise motionless girl.

"Lambert is right. It's _not _acceptable. You kids need to realize there's going to be collateral damage, here. Not everyone can survive. Not everyone can go around traipsing through the hallways without a care in the world without having their blood spray-paint the walls a few minutes later. This isn't kindergarten. This isn't even a cheerleading competition. This is real life, and there are life-or-death decisions to be made every second."

No one responds to Sue's statement or the conviction behind it, but they all think about smacking her.

"He's only been dead for twelve hours," Tina mutters. "You can't just expect us to move on in twelve hours."

"Well a little more than twelve hours ago, you all were whining about three days being too long to wait to be extracted. All you've done for twelve hours is sit around and stare silently out the windows. Occasionally shooting a zombie if you can muster up the willpower to get over yourselves for five seconds."

"That's not fair, Coach Sylvester," Rachel says quietly. Sue levels her with a truly impressive glare that goes almost unnoticed because no one really has the time to go about judging the impressiveness of her glaring abilities.

"Life isn't fair. You think _this_ isn't fair? You think this safe little setup you've got here isn't fair? Well here's a newsflash. _You're alive_. The rest of the world isn't. _That _isn't fair. The fact that some shady government agency or terrorist organization unleashed this virus on the world isn't _fair_. The fact that we can't be rescued by the government because Canada has closed her borders to us isn't _fair_. The fact that no one even realizes I'm still alive and waiting to be rescued is _definitely _not fair. What happened to Hudson is unfortunate, but in the grand scheme of worldwide injustices at the moment, this hardly takes the top seat. You are all so _sure _that your little lives mean more than most people. All you kids are the same. You're convinced that the world starts and ends with you. Well it _doesn't_. You were just lucky enough to have a place to go, and smart enough to know not to leave it. But if you don't shape up and start realizing that you're going to have to be just a little _tough _if you're going to survive this place, then you have a lot more to learn than I thought you did."

She storms off, hoping to inspire some sort of resurgence in morale in her absence. But nothing happens. She can hear the silence behind her, and she growls to herself.

This kind of insubordination is _unacceptable_.

* * *

No one moves for another twelve hours. They switch rooms, confer in huddles, go to the bathroom in groups, and patrol the hallway with a truly determined amount of apathy. But no one moves to do anything of importance. No one tries to better their current situation by doing anything more than reminiscing about how things were easier when Finn was alive, when Brittany was alive, when there were no zombies running around and eating their friends.

Sue retreats to the roof and stays there screaming down about how they make her sick. She tells them that she can smell their fear and it smells like putrescence. She says that she hates everything they choose to be.

No one really notices except Rachel.

Sue Sylvester's dislike is important to no one except the girl who relies so much on the opinions of others to fuel her zest. She doesn't care if people dislike her for things that she is personally proud of. But she knows that Sue is right about at least _some _things, and the shouting and general disgust is starting to take a toll on her nerves. Rachel _wants _everyone to come together and triumph like they did when Brittany died, but for some reason everyone is reacting much more violently to Finn's untimely demise than they were to Brittany's. Rachel thinks it has something to do with Mr. Schuester's constant insistence that Finn was their leader (even though Rachel knew that _she _was their leader and didn't understand the point of asserting Finn, who wasn't assertive at all).

"We need to go to Columbus," Rachel says to Quinn after twenty-four hours and thirty-five minutes have passed since Finn died. Quinn looks at her with lank hair hanging in her face and a sneer already on her lips. Rachel ignores it and continues. "Finn was attacked because we weren't ready. We're just kids. We can hardly be expected to be ready for everything. We need to get to Columbus so we can go to Canada, where there will be people who will think of everything that we need. They'll be able to save us if something like this ever happens again."

"Does it really matter where we go?" Quinn asks. "They'll still be after us. They never stop."

"Not yet, but given their affection for eating anyone they come into contact with, I assume they're going to start getting hungry once they run out of food. We just have to keep away from them until they starve to death."

"And what if they don't starve to death? They're already _dead_, aren't they?"

"They're undead. I think that implies some sort of life. They can be dead again. We can kill them."

"But _what if they don't starve_?"

"Then we kill them all. From the safety of Canada."

Quinn sighs and rolls her eyes to the heavens.

"My father would _not _like the idea of me abandoning America to go to Canada. He wouldn't even buy me a _Nissan_ because it wasn't American. He made me get a _Malibu_ instead."

"I'm sure that must have been difficult, having your father buy you a car," Rachel says snidely before she can stop herself. Quinn grins a little and shrugs.

"I'm spoiled. I know."

"No, it's not that. It's just…"

"We're getting cabin fever."

"Yeah."

"And Finn's dead."

"Yeah, I know," Rachel whispers, afraid to hear what Quinn has to say next.

"And everything's falling apart because we have no idea what we're supposed to do next."

"Yeah."

"I don't want to die," Quinn says suddenly, her chin quivering as she meets Rachel's gaze.

"I don't either."

"I'm supposed to want to die, aren't I? Finn's dead. I have no one. I'm supposed to hurl myself from the second story window and feed myself to zombies piece by piece. Right? If I loved him, I would do that?"

"No," Rachel replies with horror, gripping Quinn's limp wrist in her hands. "Quinn, never. That's not _love_, that's adolescent fantasy. That's _Romeo and Juliet_. That's not love. If you love Finn, you keep living. You raise your child. You _love _your life. Finn would never have wanted you to think that you should die to prove your love to him."

"I guess I'm just feeling a little dramatic."

"It's understandable. We're teenagers, and you're pregnant, and there are zombies outside. These are all things that it's okay to be dramatic about."

Quinn allows the ghost of a smile to grace her lips, and she looks down at Rachel's hands. She frees herself from Rachel's grip gently, only to lace her fingers through Rachel's. She squeezes her hand tightly.

"I have you," she says simply. "Despite everything I've done to you. I was wrong when I said I don't have anyone. I have you, and I have Puck, and I have Mr. Schuester and Santana and everyone. I was so mean, but you all forgave me, and now you're willing to take turns helping me while I sit here and feel sorry for myself."

"You have every reason…"

"I know I do. But that doesn't mean I should. We need to go to Columbus. You're right. We need to take our chances, because we can't stay here. We're just kids."

"We're just kids," Rachel agrees, and she tries not to show surprise when Quinn leans over and hugs her tightly, but she's pretty sure the gasp gives her away.

* * *

When the rest of the kids see Quinn starting to channel her grief into some sort of frantic badass hyper-awesomeness, they hurry to do the same. No one really feels right about showing more grief than her. It seems a little tacky. And there's the fact that if she's strong enough to face the day without him, then they should be _more _than ready.

Quinn uses this to her advantage, and she lets _them _worry about planning to go to Columbus. _She _writes Finn's eulogy and wonders if they're even going to have a funeral. Rachel _hovers_, which is equal parts annoying and endearing, and Quinn finally chooses 'endearing' after the thirtieth time Rachel sticks her head in Quinn's room and asks 'are you _sure _you're okay?' It's hard to stay mad at someone who cares about you. Especially when that person is just about the only one who will treat you like you're a person and not a big ball of sadness.

Speaking of Kurt, he's at a loss. He wanders in and out of her room and offers a shoulder to cry on or an ear to bitch into or _anything_. He's not sure what to do when Quinn says she'd rather be left alone. Probably he knows she's hanging on by a thread, and probably he wants to help, but staying away doesn't exactly make for great aid.

She blames Kurt a little, too, even though she knows that's horrible because they all make mistakes. And like Rachel said, they're _kids_. They're not _supposed_ to react with one hundred percent efficiency when facing a _zombie_. That's ridiculous. But still the fact remains that Finn's dead because Kurt made a completely understandable mistake. And Quinn reserves the right to be at least a little pissed about it.

Or a lot.

Or maybe so mad that when she sees him, sometimes she forgets to breathe until she reminds herself that it's _really _not his fault.

* * *

Will, Emma, and Sue stand together in Sue's office again. But this time it's not for an inane argument or a quip-fest that will probably _end _in argument or stony silence. It's a business meeting. A risk assessment.

"The kids aren't going to want to stay here anymore," Will insists passionately. There is no bite or mocking lilt to his voice. The time for petty rivalries has passed. "Especially not Quinn."

"So we risk all of our lives because Q's endured a trauma? We've _all _been through a trauma. _Everyone_ out there still breathing and _not _chewing through gristle has lost someone." Sue softens for a brief moment, although you'd only know it if you knew her as well as Will unfortunately does. "I'm sorry, William. But we can't take that kind of risk. If we're going to go to Columbus, there needs to be a better reason. We would be risking _everything_. I didn't risk my _cheerleading title_ for Q, I'm sure as hell not going to risk my _life_."

"We're risking everything by staying. We need to get to a place where we're _safe_. We shouldn't have to live like this."

"It's really not good for anyone," Emma insists dutifully. She is somewhat relieved to finally be one hundred percent on Will's side for something. Because even though the thought of making the trip to Columbus is daunting and not something she actually _wants _to do, she knows that it's better than the terrible alternative: doing _nothing_.

There are many things in the big wide germy world that Emma Pillsbury cannot abide. Standing by and doing nothing while the world falls apart is most definitely one of them.

"You kids have no _idea _how bad things can get out there," Sue growls.

"And neither do you, Sue! This isn't a PTA meeting or a newscast. None of us have experience in this. You can't keep pretending that you can control this situation. The armed forces couldn't control it! The government couldn't control it! Even big corporations apparently couldn't control it, and God knows they probably tried. Emma and I have talked about it…"

"Big surprise there."

"…And we've decided that we need to leave. Now, we want you to come with us, but we're leaving and we're taking the kids no matter what I decide to do."

"Good. Take the kids. I don't care. But you better leave those guns behind."

Will levels her a tolerant look. One that makes her blood boil. It's condescending and incredibly insolent, and she wants to smack that look off his face so fast he wouldn't have a _clue _what hit him.

"We still have a while before you have to make a decision. We're leaving tomorrow at noon."

He and Emma walk out, leaving Sue surrounded by her faded glory (measured in trophies of all shapes and sizes) protected in pristine conditions by outrageously expensive display cases.

If only people were so easy to keep out of harm's way.

Then Sue wouldn't have to find some way to tell William she'll go to Columbus without inflating his already-sizable head.


	14. The Lone Wanderers

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! For your patience, a nice long 12 page chapter. Also a reference to _Mad Men, Dawn of the Dead,_ and a few to _Fallout 3_.

* * *

**Chapter 14 - The Lone Wanderer(s)**

Everyone knows that Quinn is devastated about Finn's death. Even after she recovers from her near-comatose state and begins interacting with people again, the signs are all there. But no one even notices about Rachel, because Rachel throws herself into preparing for Columbus with a zeal that would be completely obvious if not for the fact that no one _wants_ to notice. It seems a little seedy, feeling bad for Rachel, even though she's clearly hurting. Rachel _was _the other woman, after all. Technically. And even though Quinn has forgiven her for coveting her boyfriend, the rest of the kids aren't stupid enough to openly support her.

Rachel knows this. Rachel knows that she is the social pariah of the group even though the school hierarchy isn't nearly as important as it used to be. It doesn't bother her most of the time because she is the master at convincing herself that she doesn't care (because one day they will all be begging her for her autograph). At the very least, they will be begging her to save them from zombies. But the point is that she can't deny the sting that strikes her deep in the pit of her belly every time she sees those sidelong sympathetic glances from Tina or Artie (who are both very kindhearted people even though they are often too shy to openly show that off), or the sad little smiles from Kurt.

It seems absurd, and yet entirely within the bounds of decency, that no one is willing to talk about her brief liaison with Finn except Quinn herself. Although Quinn, to her credit, mostly steers clear of the topic entirely and prefers to talk only of preparations for their immediate future.

"I remember seeing something in a movie once," she says by way of introduction as she careens into the art room with unconvincing, hollow gusto. "And they made the trucks all armored and stuff."

"The _Dawn of the Dead _remake, most likely," Rachel says. "Noah mentioned that earlier."

"Oh, he did?" Quinn asks, deflating with that news.

"Well, only briefly. Any ideas you have regarding the execution of said preparations would be wonderful and much appreciated."

Quinn smiles gratefully and sits beside Rachel. They've commandeered the art room as their command headquarters, since Coach Sylvester has been moping around and has been completely unwilling to be even a little bit helpful.

"It's weird," Quinn says suddenly, turning to Rachel with the sad and haunted panic that wants to come out barely held at bay in favor of false cheeriness. "Sometimes my dad used to just come home early from lunch and take me to Columbus. Just like that. It's so _close_. It used to be not a big deal at all. But two hours then is like a million years now, isn't it? Any time we go outside there, it's scary and dangerous."

"Yeah. It is. Which is why we have to make absolutely certain that we do everything right."

"Your perfectionism and my natural ability to make people get their asses in gear are going to really come in handy, aren't they?"

"I think that sums it up nicely, Quinn. That is indeed why we make a good team."

The two girls smile at each other. And even though things aren't perfect (things won't _ever _be perfect, Rachel knows, although that doesn't mean she isn't going to _try_), things are at least better. And at least now they can say that they have each other, even if they don't have Finn.

* * *

Will is enjoying the solitude and gory fascination of target practice when he hears the door behind him open. He's surprised to see Puck standing in the doorway, and he feels his eyebrows rise considerably before he catches himself.

"Puck, what's up?" he asks. He tries, he really does, not to sound like a hopeless geek, but it sort of happens anyway. He can't really seem to help it. Puck makes him a little nervous (as ridiculous as that sounds even to himself).

"Uh, nothing. I was just looking for a window to shoot out of. All of the good ones are taken."

It's true. And it's not as if there have been more zombies than usual. Actually, they're pretty sparse. Sure the occasional zombie comes wandering up the path, but it's hardly enough for the eight people currently dangling out windows and fighting to be the first one to make the shot. Especially with Sue on the roof constantly winning and then yelling about her obvious superiority.

"Everyone's a little on edge," Will explains, stopping just short of launching into a more detailed overview of _why _they're so edgy. Puck, he's sure, knows better than almost anyone.

"Right."

"But we'll be going to Columbus soon," Will says, and he feels slightly guilty but he's trying a little bit to see Puck's reaction to the whole Columbus thing, because he's not sure that Puck has _had _a reaction yet. Puck's reaction has been to put up a wall. To act like nothing is happening at all. Will's pretty sure that's been Puck's reaction to everything since the day he was born.

"Yeah. Columbus. And then freakin' _Canada_."

"It'll be safe there."

"Yeah, _maybe_. Once we _get _there."

"So you don't like this idea? Why didn't you say anything? You know, we value your contributions to the group, Puck."

"No offense, Mr. S., but that's bullshit and you know it. I'm just Finn-lite. Nobody cares what I have to say because I'm just an idiot jackass. But whatever. I'm over it. And I know that going to Columbus is a smart idea, because it makes sense, and because Canada is all safe and green and shit. But it's just so _easy _for everything to get fucked up. It just _has _to get fucked up. Someone's going to die. Maybe we're _all _going to die. And that's such _bullshit_. After all _this._"

"I know," Will says quietly, shocked at the amount of venom and emotion that's in Puck's voice. "It's not fair. I know. But we have to deal with it. We _have _to. There are no other options."

"There are other options."

"No. There aren't."

Puck looks at Will for a long moment. Sizing him up, almost. Looking at him like he's not sure how he can explain what he's about to say. But then he just nods. And Will _knows _that he's thinking about killing himself. Not with any concrete certainty, but at least with abstract consideration. And even though Will has dealt with kids like this before and even though he used to know the words to say and the motions to go through, he's not sure what to say to Puck at the moment. Because the truth is that they're _all _considering it. The different ways that they might have to kill themselves if the situation gets too fucked to handle. If the zombies are swarming up the stairs and into the rooms and eating their friends to pieces. Will knows that maybe some of the kids will be able to get out alive, and maybe some of them will be able to handle it. But Will won't be able to handle it.

Maybe that's selfish, but it's true. And he's past the point of caring if he's selfish.

No, that's not true. He cares, and he knows it. He's cursed with caring. He won't let himself die as long as any of those kids are still alive. Because he has to be there for them no matter what. Not because he's their teacher, or because he feels like he has some sort of obligation as their glee club director, but because that's just the way it is.

"Mr. S., how the fuck are we supposed to do this?" Puck asks finally. He doesn't ask quietly and with desperation like Finn used to. He doesn't even sound like he really wants Will's opinion. But Will takes the opportunity to give it to him anyway.

"We're going to do it because we have to. Because no one else will. Because nothing that happened here will matter if we don't live to remember it."

Before Puck nods and leaves the room, Will swears he sees the hint of a smile.

* * *

Emma is standing in the upper window, watching the grounds below as Puck and Mercedes argue about fortifying Puck's truck. Puck's voice is too quiet with that deadly, sexy sort of anger that Emma finds disturbingly erotic to hear, but Mercedes is loud and unafraid of zombified retribution when she shouts, "Boy, I'm gonna _show _you the definition of whoop-ass in about twenty-five goddamn _seconds_."

Tensions are high, and even though Mercedes and Puck are soon laughing together about the ridiculousness of the situation, Emma still feels as though her body is a spring coiled so tightly that at any moment it could burst apart and send shrapnel flying in every direction.

She's trying not to think about Ken or Will or Terri or anything other than the children, because they're what's important. It's just hard to focus on them without losing her mind, so she prefers to lose herself in guilty thoughts of her little love quadrangle that is now a moot point considering the ethical questionability of romantic entanglements with zombies.

She just wants to think of anything other than what's currently relevant.

"Um, Miss Pillsbury?" says a tiny voice from behind her, and Emma knows that it's Santana although the fact that she sounds so _quiet _and so _scared_ is a bit of an out-of-body experience for a few moments.

"Yes?" she asks after she has steeled herself enough to turn around. Santana is fresh-faced and looks younger without the makeup, and her eyes are filled with unshed tears that make Emma's heart ache.

"I just…you're the only one here who's not completely batshit, okay? You're the only one who's still thinking about Brittany and Finn and everyone else who's dead. So can I just hang out here with you for a little while?"

"Of course," Emma says with surprise, and guilt pierces her heart for a minute as she thinks about the fact that she always expects the worst from Santana, even in moments like this. And she hates the fact that she judges Santana so harshly even after the strides that Santana has shown towards maturity in the past few days. Emma has been so used to being able to judge everyone from her immaculate and imaginary ivory tower that she hasn't had the time to come down to Earth. Maybe she doesn't _want_ to come down to Earth. It's not that she's thinking about Brittany and Finn. It's just that she's not thinking about the present, either.

But how can she say that to Santana? Who just wants someone to remember her dead best friend and possible lover? How can she tell the truth?

Instead she just stands silently beside Santana with all the fear and the self-hatred welling up inside her and trying to bubble out.

"And don't think this is setting a precedent for the future or anything, Miss P., but if I could get a hug, too, that would be cool."

Emma smiles and wraps her arms around the younger woman, and it's surprisingly nice. Maybe because Santana clings to her desperately like she's at all useful instead of just herself.

* * *

"I'm telling you, you're not touching my baby."

"No one's asking to touch your _dick _or your _girl_. We're asking to touch your _car_. You ask me, any grown-ass boy with this much of an attachment to his wheels has some serious issues. Rachel, even _you _gotta agree that this dude is just too crazy."

"Firstly, Mercedes, I resent the implication that I am the model of craziness that all other people base their definitions around. Secondly, I must however reluctantly agree with you that Noah needs to get over it."

"Dude, you've got to be shitting me," Puck groans. "This is not a discussion. There are like a million cars in that parking lot. Turn one of _them _into Optimus fucking Prime. Just not my baby."

"If you refer to your truck as your 'baby' one more time, I think Rachel's going to go key it," Kurt says wryly from the back of the room.

"Once again I _really _must protest this inclination you all seem to have that I'm _insane_. What evidence is there to support…?"

"Look, it's just not happening. You're not touching…"

"I swear to God, white boys and their trucks. I will just never…"

"Guys, this is getting a little ridiculous," Will insists loudly, and the students blessedly stop complaining and turn to look at him.

"Please can someone tell Puck that he needs to grow up?" Quinn asks, raising her hand mid-sentence as if to excuse herself.

"Whatever. Fuck you."

"You don't _swear_ at pregnant girls," Tina shouts indignantly.

"It's not like the baby has _ears_," Puck replies with exasperation. "…Right?"

"Babies have ears," Jacob says to no one in particular, since he has serious problems addressing Puck without experiencing involuntary and fear-induced bowel movements.

"Please, can we all just be quiet for one moment?" Rachel asks. Her tone is authoritative enough (and she has stepped close enough to the piano) that everyone turns to her reluctantly. The last thing anyone wants is a song about how they're all being insensitive.

"Thank you," Will sighs. The fact that they're having this discussion in the rehearsal room is a little morbid for his tastes, but he figures it's only appropriate. Especially with the blood splatter left by his undead wife on the carpet. "Okay. The truth is, Puck, there aren't any other trucks in the parking lot. The only ones there are both yours. There's a van, which we're definitely going to be using for our supplies, but we also need the trucks. And I think that Rachel and Quinn brought up many interesting points about fortifying…"

"I _get _the whole snow-plow thing. I think that's fuckin' awesome. But drilling holes in the sides of the bed to put _spikes_ there? I mean, if we could just _glue _the spikes…"

"Nope. It doesn't work that way," Mercedes insists. "The bayonets that Coach Sylvester gave us…"

"…Um, and that's another thing. Why are we all busy ganging up on me about my trucks while no one has asked why Coach S. has fucking _bayonets _stashed away in her gym equipment?"

"She had guns buried in the floor boards of the gym," Mike sighs. "Really, to be surprised by anything at this point would be a mistake. The key is to just assume that she's capable of everything."

Quinn nods her earnest agreement before turning back to the matter at hand and saying, "Puck, we don't _have _to fortify the trucks with spikes. But then if anyone dies, it's going to be your fault, and you'll just have to live with that."

She levels him with a poker face so impressive that it puts her other considerable poker faces to shame. And then she ever-so-lightly rests her hand on her stomach. The implication is clear, even to Puck, and he's half pissed off but also half realizing she's right.

"I think, Noah, that I have to agree with the others. Kurt and Mercedes are determined to bedazzle your truck in order to ensure that we all survive to our destination. And I think that while the whole thing may turn out to be ultimately unnecessary, you should still allow them to do it. Being safe is _always _better than being dead. Besides, when we reach Columbus you won't need your truck anymore. It won't matter what condition it's in."

"Exactly," Kurt says brightly. "You wouldn't argue with the only girl who's still putting out for you, would you?"

Everyone stares at Kurt with exasperation. Sure, they all know that Rachel and Puck are doing the deed behind closed doors at night, but they've all sort of constructed an unspoken vow that they're not going to talk about it. Things are different in a zombie apocalypse type scenario. The time for acting like personal relationships are nothing but fodder for juicy gossip is over. They've all grown up considerably through losing their friends, and no one is going to begrudge Rachel and Puck the chance to take what comfort from life that they can.

Except, apparently, Kurt. But Kurt has been a little darker ever since Finn died, and no one really can blame him. But that doesn't mean that his outburst doesn't make them extremely uncomfortable.

"Um," Mercedes whispers, starting to warn Kurt against saying anything else, but the room is too quiet for her to say anything without being overheard.

"I think that's highly inappropriate and not at all related to the discussion," Rachel says indignantly after recovering from her brief moment of shock. She is embarrassed and heartbroken to realize that she looks around the room for Finn as she says it, because her reflexes have taught her to be careful of his feelings. And observation has told her that even though he loved Quinn, he would not have approved of she and Puck's copulation. But then she remembers that she doesn't have to worry about him being hurt anymore, because he's dead. She forces back tears, reminds herself that they're not appropriate for this _scene_, and then continues with, "Noah is quite capable of discerning rational advice whether or not it is delivered by someone with whom he has a sexual relationship."

"What?" Matt asks with disgust. "You're _sleeping _with him?"

"No shit, dude," Mike groans.

"This is indeed the end of times," Jacob laments. Santana laughs bitterly and rolls her eyes at him.

"Um, the point is," Mr. Schuester says, as his face burns hot and red. "Rachel's right, and I think that whatever she and Puck do is their business."

"Oh, come on. Lighten up. We might as well talk about it if we have to _notice _it all the time. Their little lovey-dovey stares and whispers…"

"Kurt, shut _up_," Tina whispers.

"Plus, that's not true. They barely even talk when we're in the room," Artie agrees, squeezing Tina's hand tightly in a show of solidarity.

"Why is this anyone's business?" Quinn asks, throwing her hands in the air. And because Quinn is their Grieving Widow, everyone bites their tongues and waits for her to say whatever she wants to say. "Look, I'm sure it's no secret to you little gossip fiends that my baby is not Finn's. It's Puck's." She pauses for dramatic effect and only Matt looks scandalized. Mike rolls his eyes again. "And I loved Finn, but Puck and I made a mistake and I got pregnant. Okay? So if _I'm _okay with Puck and Rachel fornicating behind closed doors, then I really don't see why you care so much about it, Kurt."

She levels Kurt with another poker face that actually puts the previous one to shame, and he looks down at the ground quickly like her eye contact burns. She turns back to Puck.

"I know you'll probably be tempted to be an ass now and not let him work on your truck, but I think you should keep in mind that you'll still be responsible for anyone's death."

Puck surprises them all by shrugging good-naturedly and genuinely looking confused that she would think so lowly of him.

"No, dude, whatever. I still think it sucks, but this isn't exactly the first time someone's given me shit about who I'm sleeping with. You don't get to be a stud like me without pissing a few people off."

He grins, and Jacob sighs with disgust.

* * *

Once Kurt, Mercedes, Tina, and Artie are outside fortifying the trucks, Rachel approaches Puck in as incognito a way as possible. She's not exactly James Bond material, but no one notices her except Puck himself, and only after she slams the door by accident.

They're standing alone in their room for the first time since Finn died. It hasn't seemed right to dive back into anything, and neither trust their hormones enough to sleep next to each other without dirty thoughts and actions quickly becoming inevitable.

"We need to talk," Rachel says, and Puck tries not to let his disappointment show. Rachel notices it anyway. "You're disgusting."

"Well…" Puck says with a noncommittal shrug.

"I believe that this is as good a time as any to discuss our thoughts on going to Columbus."

"No. Stop. Seriously, Rachel? We don't need to discuss every little thing that happens."

"Yes, but…"

"I mean it. We really don't. Look, it's cool that we're like, you know…sort of a _thing_ now, but I don't want to spend all this time analyzing it like this is fucking English class and you're fucking Elizabeth Bennet."

"The remedial English class read Austen?"

"I'm not in remedial English! For the fifth time!"

"I know. I'm sorry. It was an attempt at a joke. I see now that my delivery wasn't exactly…I'm nervous."

The admission is a little out of left field, even for Rachel, and Puck blinks a few times as if trying to visually process the aural information.

"You…what? You're nervous? What, about Columbus?"

"No. About speaking to you."

"Why?"

Puck, needless to say, is a little hurt by this development. He thought he had made it pretty clear that he isn't going to be throwing any more slushies at her. Not with zombies being their number one priority, and not since he's started hoping to have access to her vag on a semi-regular (or, even better, irregularly often) basis.

"I don't mean it like _that_," she says quickly. "I just mean…I don't know what I mean. Things are very different from how they were only a week ago, and while then it was not even of the remotest possibility that you and I would ever have occasion to date again…not that I'd call this _dating _necessarily, because there truly is nothing I see wrong with what we are doing without putting a label to it…"

"I'm confused. Do you like, want me to say something mushy or some shit? Cus I guess I could do that."

"No. Not at all. Don't misunderstand me. I'm perfectly content continuing in this way without any sort of labels or traditional expectations. It's just, I came into this room with the purpose of discerning whether or not you feel any emotional attachment to me at all. In layman's terms, is this just all about sex? Or do you like me?"

It would have been a difficult question for Puck to answer a week ago. Rachel is right; things _are _different. Things are much more complicated, but at the same time they're so much _less_.

"Of course I like you," he says simply and with as much conviction as he can muster. Sure, not the most _macho _thing for him to say, but he doesn't really give a shit. He's killing zombies left and right like a BA. He's macho _enough_.

"Okay," Rachel says with a quiet smile. "Thank you for clarifying. For the record, I care about you too."

"Okay," Puck says. Rachel steps forward and leans up to kiss him gently on the lips. Puck smiles against her mouth and pulls back to assess the situation (meaning the odds of his getting any further than light tongue action and maybe a little groping).

"We'd better not. On the way up here I thought of something."

Puck sighs and asks, "What's that?"

"Well, I know that Mercedes and Kurt are rather bent on pimping your truck, but I recalled, and I've no idea why I didn't think of this sooner, but I remembered that the buses for the middle school students would have been parked at the middle school, and the keys are in Figgins's outer office. I don't think it would be _too _unreasonable to…"

But Puck is already out the door and screaming for Mercedes and Kurt.

* * *

It is eventually decided that Puck, Rachel, and Kurt will drive in Puck's pickup to the middle school, followed closely by Will and Mike in another vehicle. Santana and Matt offer gamely to stay at the high school to guard the remaining students, although Artie and Tina are a little offended that they aren't included among the students able to be called defenders despite their marked improvements in the past few days. Sue shouts from her rooftop as the trucks pull out of the parking lot, and although no one can quite hear what she says, the tone makes the intended message pretty clearly a taunting one, probably involving some sort of witticism about William's hair.

In a small cardboard box on her lap, Rachel carries all of the keys to all of the buses used for the middle and elementary school students. She is wedged between Puck and Kurt, mainly to keep Puck from trying to strangle Kurt for drilling one hole in the side of Puck's truck before Puck could explain the reason for his shouting out the window at them.

"You heard me," Puck growls after they have been on the road for a few moments. The middle school is not very far from the high school, but Puck is driving slowly so as to avoid hitting any obstacles in the road. There aren't too many zombies around, and the ones that _are _nearby are quickly left behind even with the ambling pace of the vehicles.

"I thought you were just being a baby again about your precious truck. And I said I'm sorry."

"Well, I'm sorry too. Sorry that I'm going to have to kill you."

"Give it up, Noah," Rachel says harshly. "You'll just be leaving it here anyway when we go."

"No way in hell. I'm moving my truck back to my garage. That way when we come back here, it'll be safe."

Rachel and Kurt both look at Puck with something like disgust and something like pity, and both decide to stay silent and let him believe what he wants to believe. But they look at one another and it's clear they both think that things are never going to go back to normal.

"Noah, that reminds me. Before we return to the high school…my house isn't very far from the middle school. I used to walk there in the morning, actually, so…"

"Yeah, Rach," Puck says, fondness creeping into his voice despite himself.

"Okay, but you're sure you know what I'm…"

"_Yeah_, Rach. You want to go home. That's fine. We can take the truck back there when they take the bus."

"Thank you."

"See? You don't have to _state _everything to me," Puck says pointedly but with good humor. "I'm capable of _getting _things."

Kurt snorts and rolls his eyes, but he's smiling a little. And that's enough to make Puck decide that maybe he won't smash the kid's face in, after all.

* * *

The feelings of goodwill and general niceness evaporate as soon as they pull up to the school. Entering the parking lot is not even an option, because the place is _swarmed_ with zombies. The lot is surrounded by a short concrete fence, about knee-high on an adult. Zombies are crammed into every possible space within that fence, milling around and trying to scramble hungrily towards the building.

"Jesus," Kurt breathes, pressing back in his seat as if it will absorb him and he can disappear from the world forever.

"Holy shit," Puck agrees.

"There has to be someone in there."

"You're right. Why else would they be trying to get in?" Rachel asks. Puck shakes his head before replying.

"Maybe there are _bodies_ in there. Maybe everyone's _dead_."

Rachel practically shouts, "Maybe, but maybe not. Can you imagine? Maybe there's another group in there. And they don't even have a homicidal cheerleading coach to supply them with guns."

"They must be so afraid," Kurt says.

"We can help them!"

"Yeah? How?" Puck asks with mounting frustration. "What the hell do you expect me to _do_? Look at that! That is a fucking million and ten zombies right there."

The zombies still haven't noticed their presence, but it won't be long. Puck looks in his rearview and sees Mr. Schuester gesturing wildly as if he thinks that Puck doesn't see the undead menace looming ahead.

"There's got to be something," Rachel says thoughtfully. And Puck sighs, because he knows _exactly_ what to do. But he _really_ doesn't want to. Especially not after all that fuss he made about his truck.

"There is. And if I ever hear a word from anyone ever again about how I'm a baby and my truck isn't a big deal, I will kill them with my fists."

He speeds away from the parking lot with reckless abandon, careening down two side streets before slamming the breaks and stopping in the middle of the road. There are no zombies in sight. Only creepy abandoned cars and a few too many blood stains.

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get out."

"Noah, if you're planning on doing something stupidly heroic…"

"Seriously, there's no way you're going to sacrifice yourself by blowing up your truck, is there? Because I really don't think…"

"What? How would I even…? Whatever. Just get out. Look, I read this in a book once and I thought it was a good idea. Just didn't think it would be my truck. Mr. Schue is right behind us. Get out and go get in his car. I'll be there in a minute."

Rachel and Kurt exit the vehicle, and Puck watches in the rearview as they jog over to Mr. Schue's car and hop in. Mr. Schue does some more wild gesturing, but Puck just calmly rolls down his window and tosses his gun on the street so he can pick it up later.

Flipping through his CD collection, he settles on a Metallica mix that Finn made him. Pretty appropriate, and loud enough for his purposes. He puts the CD into his player and turns the volume up as loud as it can possibly go, jacking up the base and congratulating himself for spending that money on the ridiculously hardcore speakers that he never actually used until now. Except, he's also telling himself he's a fucking moron because as soon as the first song starts, he can practically feel his eardrums shattering.

He presses the lock button on his dangling keys and then crawls out his window after one more fond goodbye to his poor baby (who is soon going to be torn apart by zombies looking for the source of the noise, if the plan works). Mr. Schue pulls up next to him and Rachel opens the back door. Puck jumps in with as much speed and grace as he can muster (not much).

As soon as the door is closed behind him and the deafening sound of the music is muffled by the thick safety glass of Mr. Schue's fancy car, Rachel smacks Puck on the side of the head.

"You are such an idiot," she insists venomously, although to Puck it sounds like she's talking through cotton and he can't help but laugh a little. Which, of course, only makes Rachel hit him harder.

* * *

Sue finally comes down from her perch on the roof once it begins raining. She's always been the kind of person to stick to her guns, but she's not the kind of person who will risk catching pneumonia just to piss off a poorly-coifed Kebler sprite of a man who isn't even currently in the building. So she reluctantly re-enters the school and forces herself to check up with Jacob, who of course knows all the tiniest goings on of everyone in the building despite not being invited to join in any discussions himself.

"They decided to go get buses."

"For Columbus?"

"That was the implication. Rachel seemed to think…"

"Of course she did. I did too."

"Of course you did."

Jacob is starting to look a little nervous that he's offended her, which makes Sue feel a lot better about the situation.

"Right. So they're going to get buses from the middle school, and they didn't think to consult me. I'm not sure why I'm surprised. They're so underdeveloped mentally that they don't see the intelligence in using my intellectual resources."

"Well, I think they thought that Mr. Schue…"

"Oh, I'm talking about him too, Jacob. Make no mistake. I blame the hair gel, although there is also the strong case that perhaps his mother was drinking while pregnant."

"I guess that would make sense."

"Of course it would, Jacob. I suggested it."

"Right. Of course. I'm so sorry."

"Give it a rest. Not even your severe and crippling discomfort can bring me pleasure today. Get out."

Jacob acquiesces immediately and fairly evaporates from the room, leaving the cantankerous coach in her office. Sue waits until he's gone and then pulls out her trusty flask, engraved with her _real_ initials from her days in the service (no one knows that she was originally born under a different name and adopted the name of her superior officer in their all-woman outfit after the _real _Sue Sylvester was killed in battle, and she intends to keep it that way. Her real name is far too embarrassing). She takes a few swigs and leans back in her chair, swiveling around to face her trophies.

In that case is the very first cheerleading trophy she ever won. She remembers keenly the sense of control and power that she felt directing those girls into their lifelong eating disorders and psychological issues (directed with pride, of course, because Sue Sylvester did not abide weakness in anyone).

"Where has it gone?" she asks to no one in particular. The thrill of _existing_ in such a constant state of fantasticness used to be enough to get her through the day. But that enthusiasm is gone. Replaced only by the necessity to keep the zombies from beating her. Replaced only by pride.

Her pride strengthens and she jumps to her feet. She realizes that she has been approaching this from entirely the wrong angle. It doesn't matter if they are in the school or in Tokyo or the Brazilian jungle. She _will _lead those kids just like she led her cheerleading squad. And if they have to go to Canada for her to do it, then go to Canada she shall.

She opens the door and steps into the hall.

"Santana. Jacob," she screams, raising her chin into the air in defiance of anyone who would dare call her weak. "Come here. We need to talk."

* * *

Will is furious with Puck for approximately three minutes.

"After all the grief you gave poor Kurt and Mercedes…" is the general point of the fury, but once Puck instructs Will to drive around to the back of the middle school, Will finally understands what Puck did.

"They're gone," Mike says with a grin in Puck's direction. "Nice job, you brilliant jackass."

"Thank you, thank you," Puck says. Rachel rolls her eyes.

"The noise distracted them," Will narrates unnecessarily.

"Yeah. I figured it would work because I read it in a book once."

"What, a technical manual telling you how to distract bears?" Kurt asks snidely.

"No. Some book about zombies my mom bought me. The dude in the book did the same thing and it was fucking awesome. I can't believe I'd never even thought of that before."

"You still destroyed your truck, after setting us back _who knows _how many hours…"

"Mr. Schuester, please. Although I must disagree with the fact that Noah neglected to inform Kurt and I of his plan despite the fact that the issue was not at all time-sensitive, it was a brilliant idea. The fact that he sacrificed his truck should be cause for praise, not scrutiny!"

"Thanks," Puck says with a grin. "I am pretty brilliant, huh?"

Rachel rolls her eyes again and hops out of the car. Will joins her shortly in staring at the blockaded back door to the middle school.

"There could be people in there," he says with amazement.

"I knew it," Rachel whispers, barely daring to hope that her parents might be among the survivors, although she can't help her brain from turning in that direction. Never mind that it doesn't make any sense. Never mind that her parents were both already at work when the infection happened and probably didn't have time to get home by the time things got really messy, let alone the middle school. Never mind that she has always hated false hopes and has discouraged them in other people when at all possible.

The fact is, until she searches every room in that school, she is not going to believe that her parents aren't there. Keeping hope alive and having false hopes are two entirely different things, and she knows that she's only managing to hold it together as well as she is because there is still the possibility that her parents are out there somewhere, worrying about her .

"Should we go in?" Mike asks. "Or just take a bus and get out of here"

"We can't just leave them, if they're in there."

"I know, Kurt. But I don't like this. It's creepy."

"Yeah, I'm totally getting _Fallout 3_, Springvale school vibes here right now," Puck whispers dramatically.

"I get that reference," Kurt proclaims, but he looks a little sick as he says it. "And I agree."

"It doesn't matter," Rachel reminds them.

Will sighs and says, "She's right. It doesn't. We're going in there, okay guys? Rachel, we can break one of these windows here and get you inside. Then you go move whatever's in front of the door."

"No way is she going in there alone," Puck says incredulously.

"I'll be fine. I'll bring a gun and my natural skill for sharpshooting."

"But what if there are people in there who try to kill you and eat you? No. No way."

"I was willing to agree with you on the resemblance to _Fallout 3_, Puck, but I think you're taking it a little far. There aren't going to be any raiders in the school, I promise."

"Shut up, Kurt."

"No, _you _shut up. Rachel can take care of herself. Can't you, Rachel?"

"Yes, Kurt. Thank you. Although I have to mention that I am able to see through your scheme, and I know you only want me to go alone because you're the only other person who could fit through the window, and you're not fond of the idea of going with me."

"I could fit," Mike says doubtfully.

"Then it's settled! Mike goes with Rachel, and no one gets raped and murdered."

Rachel rolls her eyes at Puck again and waits as they break the small basement window with the butt of their guns, making sure to clear the window of glass. The basement is a little darker than she would have preferred, but she doesn't let her fear show. She lets Mike go first, although she protests once again the necessity of his accompanying her, and then she lies flat on her stomach on the ground and starts to lower herself into the room. Mike finds a step-ladder for her so that she doesn't need to jump as far as he did (being at least a foot and a half taller than her does has its advantages, she supposes). Puck grabs her hands and helps to make her landing a gentle one. She smiles up at him gratefully, and he looks back at her with unhidden concern.

"Thank you," she says when he holds onto her hands just a little too long, and he lets go hastily.

"Hurry up," he replies.

"No problem there," Mike says nervously. "This place is a horror show."

"It's just a little dark," Rachel says chidingly as they move down the hall.

"This place always creeped me out. Why did we need to have classrooms in a _basement_?"

"Because there wasn't enough room aboveground. If only there were lights on in here, it wouldn't be nearly so unsettling."

"Well, _duh_."

They locate the staircase that will lead them up to the back door, and they jog up it gratefully. Wasting no time on pausing and listening for any signs of danger, they sprint to the back door and fling aside the desks and filing cabinets that are piled there.

"This isn't very well done," Rachel says nervously. "Even with the doors bolted…"

"Yeah. I'm a little surprised that none of the zombies got in."

"Exactly."

"So maybe the zombies _did _get in," Mike says with a start of surprise. He and Rachel whirl around to face the empty and dark hallway in front of them. If this were a movie, there would undoubtedly be a whole horde of zombies standing directly behind them and waiting for them to notice. But it isn't a movie, and there are no zombies there.

Rachel and Mike both exhale heavily.

"I'll finish this. You guard the hall," Mike says once he's managed to catch his breath. Rachel nods readily.

"Good idea."

* * *

Ten minutes later, they're all standing in the library, staring down at the two bodies wrapped in old maps and left behind to rot. Will picks up the neatly-written note beside them and begins to read in a tremulous voice.

"If you find this, God bless you. The zombies grow thicker every day. We heard gun shots this morning and hoped that someone was coming to rescue us, but it seems it was a fool's hope. We finally decided to go to Columbus. The last person we encountered was on his way there. He said there was an evac station. We can only pray that he's right. There are four of us left, all teachers at this school, and we're leaving in one of the buses as soon as we can divert the attention of the zombies long enough to leave the building. Please, God, let us get out. We have suffered so much."

"They got out," Rachel says with forced brightness. "That's good, right?"

"Yeah," Will sighs, dropping the note to the ground unceremoniously.

"And it means that we're not the only people who heard about Columbus. That lends far more credence to the voice on the radio!"

"True."

"And…"

"Rachel," Will says quietly, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Let's just get out of here before those zombies realize there's nothing to eat inside that truck."

He leads them down the hall, their little party noticeably more subdued than it had been earlier. They make their way to the back door, and Puck drives the car around front to make sure the parking lot is still clear before driving back to pick up the others.

When they reach the buses, they see that one of the doors is open. The floor and steering wheel are stained with blood. Wires poke out from under the wheel, as if someone tried to hotwire it and couldn't get it done in time.

"They didn't have the keys," Rachel sighs, clutching the cardboard box to her chest. "They couldn't get it started."

She turns away quickly and moves towards another bus with seeming purpose, although she isn't fooling anyone into thinking she's not just trying to hide her tears.

"Um, guys," Kurt says nervously. They all turn to look at him.

"What? We gotta get moving. Come on." Puck says.

"Yeah, that's exactly it. We gotta get moving. The music stopped."

Everyone stops to listen and realizes that he's right. Not even the birds are chirping anymore. There is just complete and unbroken silence. Except then it _is_ broken by the sound of spine-chilling moans.

"Oh my God," Mike whispers, sounding sick. The zombies, wherever they are, are all moaning together, loud and constant. And they're coming closer.

"We gotta go," Will says. "Right now. We gotta go."

He runs to the nearest bus and wrenches the door open. Everyone piles on board but Puck and Rachel.

"We're gonna go back to Rachel's house to see if her parents are there. We'll take your car."

"Puck, don't be an idiot," Kurt shouts shrilly. "We have to get back to the school."

"I just need to see if they're alive," Rachel says to Will. Either her pleading tone or the tears shimmering in her eyes wins him over, and he reluctantly gives his consent. Rachel and Puck sprint to Will's car while Will finds the set of keys that corresponds with the number on the side of the bus.

No one sees the zombies when they pull out of the lot. The horde is still too far away. But it doesn't matter, because hearing it is enough.

* * *

Rachel and Puck cruise down the street at a comfortably slow pace, but remain on the lookout for the giant wad of zombie bodies that will probably be hunting them down sometime soon.

"Maybe they'll just go back to the middle school," Rachel says. Puck shakes his head.

"Not likely. I mean, we're _alive_. And way better looking than those two dead teachers. They'll totally be coming after us."

"What about the bus? It's bigger. I really hope they don't go after the bus."

"We'll swing back near the middle school after we check out your place. Maybe we can lure them somewhere else."

Rachel checks the gas gauge doubtfully but then nods her consent. Puck pulls up to the sidewalk in front of her house and puts the car into park, leaving the engine running.

"Come on. Your neighborhood is sketchy."

"There's no one here."

"Exactly. Not even zombies."

"Yeah, there were no zombies at the other place either, Noah! Stop being so overdramatic. If you're trying to frighten me, rest assured that it's working."

Puck chuckles a little and follows Rachel up the front walkway. Rachel puts her hand on the doorknob and freezes.

"What is it?" Puck asks frantically, glancing behind them just to make sure.

"We didn't lock the door behind us," Rachel answers. "And we _certainly _didn't board the windows! Noah, they're alive!"


	15. Galactica to Ashes, Pemberley to Dust

Okay, so this is the final chapter. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing thus far. It's been great fun to write, and I hope it's been as much fun to read.

* * *

**Chapter 15 - Galactica to Ashes, Pemberley to Dust**

Puck doesn't want to see what's really in front of them, so he doesn't. He knows that Rachel's doing the same. And of course, it's not like he can blame her. He'd do the same thing in her position. So even though he feels his heart sinking and his stomach aching with sadness for her, he just nods and smiles.

"They're alive," she says again, and this time it's almost like she's trying to convince herself. She knocks on the door, quietly at first, but then starts to pound when her initial knocks aren't answered. Puck takes care of the few zombies in the area that are drawn by the noise.

"Maybe they don't realize it's you," he says after he shoots a zombie in the head from fifty feet away like a badass.

"It's me! Rachel!" she shouts, and her voice is starting to hold an edge of panic. She's finally noticing what neither of them wanted to notice before: that the windows aren't boarded nearly well enough to keep out zombies for very long, that there is blood _all _over her driveway, and that there aren't too many zombies still in the area. It all seems to suggest that nothing's been alive in that house for quite some time.

"Maybe they're in the basement," Puck suggests in a low tone, but he knows that Rachel can tell that he doesn't mean it.

"Maybe," she whispers. She tries turning the knob, then tries unlocking it with her keys, then finally locates the right position with her foot (her fathers' constant overpreparedness led to them purchasing a number of Worst Case Scenario Survival Guides for her over the years, and several of them contained information on how to correctly break down a locked door), and kicks the door open.

"That is so badass," Puck says. Rachel doesn't laugh. She doesn't even smile. It was easy to ignore the fact that her parents might be dead back when it was just a hypothetical, and back when she could convince herself that they _also _might be alive. Having the proof of the negative in front of her was going to take a lot of stomach, and she wasn't sure that she had the stuff.

"Come on," she says, and she pulls him inside and closes the door as much as it will still close before turning to face her empty house and all the implications that the state of it brings.

What was in pristine condition when she and Puck left only _days_ before is now an unholy mess. Blood is smeared on the black and white tiles in the kitchen, pictures have been knocked off their nails in the walls, and empty packages of food lie haphazardly across the floor. The back door is wide open, but Rachel barely has the time to feel foolish about the fact that she kicked the door open (and possibly sprained her ankle, she's starting to realize) for nothing. She yells something practically unintelligible to Puck about checking out the basement, then runs up the stairs.

Puck, halfway down the stairs to the empty basement, feels his heart stop when she screams.

* * *

When Will pulls into the high school parking lot in the bus, he's surprised to find Sue outside and waiting for him in a fresh red Adidas tracksuit, looking like she's ready to harp on him about trying to steal funding from Cheerios again. He actually feels a little lightheaded at the surrealism of the image for a moment before he manages to bring himself back under control.

"Sue," he says, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world when he opens the door and stares down at her from his rather ungainly perch.

"I always knew there _had _to be a profession even _more _unsuited to you than educator, so thank you for finally solving that particular mental dilemma. Your driving is atrocious. I hope you know that there's no way in sweet hades I'm letting you behind the wheel of this thing for two hours. No, if anyone's going to hold the lives of everyone in their hands, it's going to be me. You can be in charge of organizing the campfire songs or…nothing. Your choice."

Will tries his hardest not to smirk victoriously at her, but he can tell from the way her expression goes from smug to furious that he's not successful.

"I'm glad you've changed your mind," he says before she can get _too _angry again. "It'll be nice to have you along."

"Let's make one thing _very _clear, William. I haven't changed my mind about anything. I still think that this is a woefully underanalyzed idea, and I'm sure you'll all end up as even more brain-dead and cannibalistic versions of yourselves before the day is over. But I want to be there when you fail so that I can know for _sure _that you don't make it, and that I was right."

"I know you better than that, Sue," Will says, and Kurt looks at him like he's crazy, but he keeps going anyway. "I know you like to pretend that you're all hard shell, but there's some crème filling in there just like there is in the rest of us."

"If you ever compare me to a snack treat again, you oversized Kebler elf, I will shove my foot so far into your crotch that your mother's _zombie _will feel it."

Will just smiles at her (and possibly winces a little), and keeps smiling as she stalks back into the school.

"You know that the _second _you are bitten by a zombie, she is going to take perverse pleasure in shooting your brains out, right?" Kurt says lightly, looking up at Will with a concerned expression on his face.

"I don't think that was ever in question," Will agrees, and for some reason he just can't stop _smiling_ about it. He knows the truth about Sue, even if no one else does.

At least, he's _pretty _sure it's the truth. She could always just be a homicidal maniac. Part of him thinks that maybe she won't even _wait _for a zombie to bite him before blowing his brains out, but he has to have faith in her as a human being and as a leader.

Otherwise, they are all _very _dead.

* * *

Quinn is standing at one of the windows on the second floor with a sniper rifle when she hears Santana enter. She knows it's Santana because Santana has this way of walking like a panther that is _really _easy to identify even when you have your back turned. She's really quiet, too, and for a few seconds Quinn wonders if she's _trying _to sneak up on Quinn and scare the baby out of her (she wouldn't put it past Santana even a little), but then Santana clears her throat loudly and obviously, and Quinn stifles a smile before she turns around.

"Hey," she says carefully. Santana has mood swings like the husbands of pregnant women have nightmares about, especially after losing Brittany, and Quinn isn't really sure if Santana's going to shoot her in the face or hug her around the waist and try to spoon-feed her dinner.

"Okay, before I say anything, just promise me that you won't make a big deal out of this."

"I promise."

"I noticed that, no offense, you kind of suck at shooting shit. The presentation is all right. You _look _fierce as hell. You got that sneer going on, the kind that used to make Rachel Berry wet her TJ Maxx pleated pants, but you couldn't hit a zombie in the head if it was the size of fucking Godzilla."

"I'm pregnant," Quinn says automatically, her excuse for everything that has been strangely applicable for almost any situation until right now. Because Santana just narrows her eyes and looks at Quinn like Quinn _has _to be kidding.

"Your fetus is excused for suckage, but you're not. Being pregnant doesn't mean you suddenly get a free ride to everything. I'm not going to risk my ass for you because you're not willing to learn the ropes. And if Puckerman dies because you're too weak to save your own damn self, me and Rachel are going to go warrior women on your ass, and you _know _that's true. All right? So can we _save _the pregnancy excuse for someone who gives a shit?"

"Okay," Quinn says tensely. She's starting to feel a little like she's about to be drawn and quartered, but she also knows that showing fear is always a bad thing whenever Santana's involved. She can sense it, sort of like a snake, or a tiger, or a really mean dog. But she'll always respect someone who can at least somewhat attempt to _hide _it, and that's what Quinn needs to do.

"Good. Now, listen carefully, because I'm only going to explain things once."

Santana pulls a sniper rifle out from behind her back, and Quinn barely has a second to be impressed before Santana is striding towards her, a devilish sort of grin playing at her features and scaring the ever-holy hell out of Quinn _and _her unborn Drizzle.

* * *

Artie finds Tina hiding in the boy's locker room, which is weird enough without the fact that she's _crying_. He's sort of used to the whole crying thing, actually, because she's been doing that a lot (okay, so has he), and it's totally natural. But she's _hiding _and crying, which is really weird, and it reminds him of the time his cat disappeared for a week before they found his body under the front porch, like he knew he was dying and wanted to get away from everyone.

When Tina sees Artie, she wipes her eyes and tries to smile, but Artie _knows _better. He knows that she's just doing it for _him_, like she thinks that he'll somehow break down if he sees her crying or something.

And, well, here's the thing: he kind of does.

"Everything's going to be fine," he says, but he can feel his throat closing with fear and panic, and his eyes are pretty quickly filling with tears.

"I know that," Tina sobs.

"I mean it, Teen. Everything's going to be okay."

He wheels closer and tries his damndest to stop crying before she notices, but he totally, epically fails on that front. The good news is that she actually looks comforted by the fact that he's starting to blubber like a baby, so he figures that's _another _facet of Tina's personality to mark down on his Things About Tina That Defy '90s Teen Movie Stereotypes. According to his rudimentary knowledge of the female sex, they're supposed to be turned off by male crying or something. Tina's looking at him like he's some kind of golden god.

"You don't have to pretend for me, you know," she says gently, only crying a little.

"Well then, you don't have to pretend for me, either," he replies, crying only a little less.

"I think that's fair. So we're in agreement, then, that this completely and totally sucks?"

Artie nods wisely and wipes his eyes a few more times. When he puts his glasses back on, he's surprised to see Tina looming only inches away.

"You move like a tiger," he says matter-of-factly.

"What? Because I'm Asian? Don't you think that's a little racist?" Tina asks pointedly. Artie laughs and feels himself turning a little red.

"No, no! I just mean, you know, tigers are pretty cool. If I wanted to be racist, I'd mention pandas. Or rice. Or those funny little hats that Chinese people wear. Or those moustaches…"

"Okay, okay. I get it. You know your Asian humor. God. Guys can be so…"

"I'm not a guy, Tina," Artie says seriously. "Not a stereotypical one, anyway. If I can't make stereotyping comments about you being Asian, then you can't make comments about me being a normal guy."

"Fine, then you can't make comments about me being a normal girl."

"I would never," Artie says, and he smiles when Tina smiles.

She bends down and kisses his lips chastely, arms on either side of his body, feet firmly planted on the ground so Artie doesn't go rolling backward like last time. Artie smiles against her mouth and kisses her back. He loves the fact that she cares about the little things like that. And when he thinks about Quinn and Finn and how much they loved each other just before Finn was killed, he _knows _that he couldn't live through Tina dying. Maybe _physically_, sure, his body would probably survive that, crippled and all. But _mentally_, he would probably be better off being a ball of ooze. Or something.

"You know I love you, right?" he says once she pulls away for a breath. She looks at him like he's really stupid.

"Duh. Of course I do. You say it all the time."

"Okay. So I say it enough, then? Because sometimes I wonder, and I'm like 'huh, maybe I should start saying it more', because…"

"I don't think there's such a thing as saying it _enough_," Tina interrupts. "Unless you're saying it with every single breath."

"No, no way. I'm not doing that. Tina, I love you. I mean, I seriously, seriously love you. But there's no way in hell I'm going to be embarrassing like that stupid alternate ending they made for the American version of _Pride and Prejudice_. And _yes_, I have seen it, because Keira Knightley and I had a very torrid love affair. And also because Kurt made me."

"First of all, dumbass, there's no way I'd want you to be _that _embarrassing. Secondly, he wasn't saying 'I love you', he was saying 'Mrs. Darcy', which was even _more _embarrassing. So if you ever call me Mrs. Abrams, just know that I will fuck you up. Thirdly, my torrid love affair with Matthew McFayden was probably way more torrid and love affairy than you and Keira "hello, I'm a stick insect" Knightley."

Artie realizes that neither of them are crying anymore. He's pretty sure that the smile might explode his face.

"You're so awesome, you know that?" he says breathlessly.

"Yeah, but you're even more awesome than I am. Do _you _know _that_?"

"There's no way my half-paralyzed body can contain even _half _the amount of awesome that you contain, Tina. It's just _math_."

"You obviously failed math, because awesomeness is not directly related to spinal issues. So clearly you're just as capable as I am at containing awesomeness."

Artie starts to retort with another (no doubt extremely clever) retort about just how _awesome _Tina is, but then he realizes that they sound really, _really _stupid.

"Um, Tina, it has been brought to my attention by…myself that we sound almost as embarrassing as the Darcys. I don't think romantic is a good look for us."

Tina considers it for a moment before answering, "You're right. Would you rather go kill zombies instead?"

"Totally."

* * *

Puck races up the stairs towards Rachel's scream, slipping _twice _on the carpet on the way up because it's so freakishly neat and clean despite the fact that the rest of the house has gone the way of total _shit_. Or maybe because he's so nervous that he's actually shaking from his hands to his feet, and suddenly walking up stairs is a _problem _for him.

He slams into her room with all the grace of a grizzly bear, and is trying to flick the safety off his pistol except his fingers are shaking so much that he just ends up jamming his thumb against the metal. He looks up, ready to brain the zombie with the butt of the gun if he has to, and sees that Rachel is standing beside her fathers' bed, hand clutched to her mouth, and in absolutely no danger whatsoever.

One of her fathers – the white one, Puck vaguely recognizes, although he's gone a bit yellow and deadish – is lying in the bed. Blood is splattered across the once-white sheets. Blood and grey brain stuff and little bits of bone. The room smells like death, and Puck sees the gun clutched in Mr. Berry's death grip.

"Oh, shit," he breathes, and it's weird that he gags a little and almost throws up. It's not like it's the worst thing he's seen since the apocalypse started getting all zombified – Finn's corpse would take the cake on that one – but there's something about the whole situation that's so fucked up. He sort of hopes that Rachel's dad has seen _28 Days Later_ and will have had the good sense to leave behind a note or something for her.

"Oh God," Rachel sobs, finally breaking out of her horrified trance and pushing past Puck to the bathroom. Puck tries not to listen to her throwing up (it's probably the least manly thing about him except the whole being-in-glee-club thing, but he really can't listen to people throwing up. It's just disgusting) and he starts walking around the bed. There _is _a note, so clearly Mr. Berry _did _watch _28 Days Later_, which isn't exactly surprising since it has full frontal male nudity, and Cillian Murphy is all hot and everything, which Puck is completely and without embarrassment willing to admit.

He knows he shouldn't read the note, but Puck's personality is comprised of all the parts of a person that aren't supposed to happen, so he considers that fact alone a license to do bad shit as long as he makes up for it later.

_Rae_, the note starts, and that's actually sort of an adorable nickname for her. _I couldn't save Daddy. I'm so sorry. I don't know where those things came from. I saw your note on the counter and I thought about going to see you, but I know that in the end it just would have been harder for you. I've been bitten, and I don't have long, and if you saw me you would only want to try to save me. Sweetheart, I love you so much, but you inherited my stubbornness and your Daddy's loyalty. _

_If you're still alive, if you ever read this…I hope you understand why I've done what I've done. I don't want to be one of those things, Rae. I don't know if there will ever end up being a cure. I hope for your sake there will be. I hope that the world can go back to what it used to be. I hope that you can find a way to be happy. You should know by now, but I'll say it anyway, that I love you very much. Your Daddy loved you too. We both want nothing but the best for you. Babygirl, if you read this, remember that you're our superstar. And you _are _strong enough to survive. Don't ever let anyone make you think that you're not. I love you, always. Dad._

Puck hates the fact that a letter can make him all emotional, but he can't help but wonder if his mom is still alive. And if she is, does she worry about him? Did they even stop to wait for him for ten minutes before fleeing the house? He knows that he's not a _model _child, but he's not so terrible that he would ever _expect _to be left behind during a zombie outbreak. He always sort of fanaticized that he would take his mom and sister to the school. Maybe he could prove to his mom at last that he's nothing like his asshole father. He could show his mom that he's the kind of guy who takes care of his family no matter what, and never runs out just because he can't deal with shit.

But then _she _ran because _she _couldn't deal with shit. And if that isn't fucked up, he doesn't know what is.

He leaves the bedroom and closes the door behind him, feeling the nausea start to subside as the feelings of sadness and guilt rise up and crowd it out. Rachel is standing in the bathroom with her hands gripping the side of the sink, her eyes closed and her head hanging down.

Puck realizes that he has absolutely no idea what to say to her.

* * *

"_All my bags are packed_," Matt sings in an exaggerated baritone, swinging two duffel bags into the back of the bus.

Mike follows up with a smooth, "_I'm ready to go!_" and twirls Mercedes down the center aisle. Mercedes opens her mouth and, predictably, blows them all away.

"_I'm standing here, outside your door_!"

Even Emma joins in with a meek, "_I'd hate to wake you up, to say goodbye_."

Since the only reason any of these kids know _Leaving on a Jet Plane _by John Denver is because of Armageddon, they promptly skip the rest of the first verse and move on to the bridge, together. Sue secretly glowers from her position near the front door, because (and not even bamboo shoots under the fingernails could get her to admit this) she sort of has a thing for John Denver, and not-so-secretly thinks _Armageddon_ is a load of crock (just more liberal Hollywood propaganda trying to get rid of nuclear weapons. _Clearly _otherwise the movie would have been over in five minutes after they destroyed the asteroid with a nuke. _That _would have been scientifically accurate).

"_So kiss me and smile for me. Let me know you'll wait for me. Hold me like you'll never let me go_."

They all erupt into the chorus just as Will appears in the doorway with the last of the bags; the ones belonging to Rachel and Puck. He smiles and surveys them proudly. Quinn and Santana are spinning and laughing, defiantly enjoying themselves for this small moment despite all the bad things that have happened to them. Tina is sitting in Artie's lap, fist-pumping and cheering along with him because neither of them have seen _Armageddon _and are a little too embarrassed to admit it. Mercedes is bellowing the lyrics, enjoying her time in the spotlight since Rachel isn't around. Even Jacob is starting to get into it, even though his voice sounds like nails on chalkboard.

Sue rolls her eyes at Will's obvious happiness, but Emma smiles at him more brilliantly than she ever has, and _that's _what really keeps him going. Her smile, their voices. They're all he has. And considering that the majority of the rest of the town only have a hankering for brains and a nice case of necrosis, he's feeling pretty good about himself.

"We'll go to Rachel's house first," he says to Sue with a bright smile. "And then we'll be on the road."

He cheers and pirouettes into the parking lot to join the rest of the club. Sue just closes her eyes and thinks that death cannot possibly come swift enough.

* * *

Rachel reads the note a thousand times. She packs pictures and scrapbooks and little things that always remind her of her fathers into a backpack. She intermittently stops and cries and hugs Puck and cries some more. The whole thing takes place in under five minutes, but it seems to take a lifetime. Puck wishes that he could say something more comforting. He wishes that he had _any _idea how to deal with her pain, but he doesn't. The only thing he knows how to do is stand around and feel like an idiot. And he's doing that _really _well.

He just feels so damn helpless. He can't save anybody. He can't even _help _anybody. He has no idea how to make Quinn feel better, or Rachel, or even fucking _Kurt_. And the whole thing is really just so stupid because he never even used to care about making _anyone _feel better, but suddenly it's like the only thing that matters.

When Rachel's finally done, Puck is gladder than he ever thought he could feel about something. He wants _out _of this house and he wants to be finished with the creepiness that the whole thing comes with. He's a man of action, and he wants to be out running around and re-killing things. That's way easier than having to deal with all these annoying delicate emotions.

"Everyone should have the chance to go home and collect things that they want before we leave," Rachel says suddenly. "Pictures, books, old memories. I think everyone needs a piece of their old life."

Puck quickly replies, "No they don't. Everything's going to be here when we get back. And we _will_ be coming back. And everything will go back to being normal. You'll see."

Rachel looks at him doubtfully, but for his benefit she doesn't say anything to the contrary. He's sort of really grateful for that.

"Ready to go?" she asks innocently. He nods and doesn't tell her that if he doesn't get out of her house soon he's going to go totally crazy and start cleaning off the walls because he can't stop looking at those blood splatters in the kitchen and wondering how they got there. He figures that they can both play the Being Nice game, even though she's probably got more experience with it.

Rachel opens the door, and it's immediately pretty clear to see that they're fucked.

Zombies. Zombies _everywhere_. Rachel's horrified gasp sounds like it could tear a hole in her throat, and Puck's breathing pretty much makes him feel the same way. There are ten zombies too close to avoid. There are maybe twenty near his truck. And there are at least _fifty_ on the road behind them, making their way down the street to the only house on the block with any living occupants.

"You've got to be shitting me," Puck groans. "Why wouldn't they follow the fucking bus? I mean, _seriously_."

"Get inside! Go out the back door!" Rachel suddenly yells, and she slams the door just as the nearest zombie lurches forward. They're both taken aback for a few seconds by the zombie's speed and the aggressiveness with which he attacks the door after it's closed. But they don't have too long to waste worrying about things that suck already. They run to the back door and slip carefully through the broken glass (opening the door doesn't occur to either of them until seconds later, and they'd be embarrassed if they weren't so busy being scared shitless). This brief respite gives them time to ready their weapons. Rachel has her pistols, and Puck has his shotgun. He knows that they don't have nearly enough ammo to take out all the goons on the street, but they should at the very least have enough to kill a couple near the truck so they can get the hell out as fast as they can. He can practically _see _Rachel mentally tallying up the number of bullets she has. Which is good but also scary, because he'd rather just pretend that they can handle it with no problem.

"Let's go," he says once he's pretty sure he can walk around the side of the house without passing out or just straight-up running away into the woods behind Rachel's house (but _no_, fuck no, because that would be fucking terrifying. Dark woods are creepy enough without zombies roaming around and eating you from the shadows and stuff).

Rachel nods and then runs alongside him as they barge towards the zombies as if zombies need to be taken by surprise or something. But then shit starts to go horribly wrong. Puck's not really sure _how _or _when_. He and Rachel have pretty much been on the same page since day one, so they both sort of thought that communicating the actual _plan _wasn't really necessary. But Rachel goes after the zombies near the driver's side door, and Puck goes after the zombies near the other side. He can see why she thought they'd be heading that way, but for a few seconds he's just so _mad _that they didn't telepathically talk to each other or something. It's not like she chose wrong or _he _chose wrong. It's just that they chose different. And for something so ridiculously simple, it goes bad pretty quickly.

The problem is that they're cut off from each other by that stupid truck, and Puck's trying to avoid being eaten by the zombies that seem a hell of a lot faster when you're standing right in front of them. Rachel's trying to do the same thing, and they end up getting farther and farther away from each other every time they take a shot. By the time he realizes that she's starting to get surrounded, he's killed all the zombies on his side of the lawn, and he has a straight shot to the truck.

He remembers what he told her back when they first partnered up. Back when it was sort of still a game, and he was just feeling smug enough to think that the zombie apocalypse was kind of fun. He told her that he'd leave her behind if she didn't keep up.

But, fuck, he was probably lying _then_. He was probably just thinking that he was hard and could deal with the shit that happened even though he clearly couldn't. And, in any case, there's no way he can leave her behind _now_. It's not like anything too meaningful has happened between them (at least, nothing that he'd ever admit. Ever). Things are just _different_, and he really doesn't want them to change again. Especially not with a violent zombie death. Especially not knowing that he could do something to save her.

So it's really not a question at all, even though at one point it probably would have been. He doesn't even hesitate before sprinting with all his considerable speed to the street where he cracks the nearest zombie in the jaw with his shotgun and then blows the fucker's face off. He can hear Rachel shouting somewhere, screaming maybe, and he can't stop thinking that maybe it's already too late. Maybe she's already been bitten and maybe she's already fucked. He can't imagine a world where Rachel Berry would not be allowed to run around and be bossy, and he's definitely sure that he doesn't want to _live _in one.

"Don't you dare get fucking bitten!" he shouts over the sound of frantic gunshots and shotgun blasts.

"I won't!" Rachel yells in reply, but she sounds just as scared as he feels, and that just makes him fight harder.

A busted open jaw here. A fractured cranium there. A one-legged zombie tries to bite him on the ankle, but Puck is ready for it, and he kicks the dude in the face. He can feel the blood all over his face, his arms, and it's making his hands stick to his gun in the most disturbing way, but he just keeps going. The adrenaline is crazy. He now totally understands why mothers can lift cars off their little kids and stuff.

Finally, he sees Rachel. She's standing in the center of a whole bunch of zombies, shooting away like it's just another day in the neighborhood. She's dripping with blood, her hair is swinging around and flinging little droplets everywhere, but she's not focusing on that. She's focusing on the fact that there are still zombies around in her general vicinity. Puck thinks, not for the first time, that she's sexy as hell when she has a gun. He _is _a little disturbed at how much he's really feeling the whole blood thing. He's pretty sure that's not really _right_.

Just when he's starting to question his definitely weird sexual choices in that department, the giant yellow school bus comes careening around the corner and slams into the back end of the zombie horde. The driver, predictably, is Sue Sylvester, and she pops the skulls of at least fourteen of the zombies in quick succession, making the most disgusting and yet completely welcome noises in the history of the world.

There's something so awesome about that entrance that it makes killing the rest of the zombies seem like a piece of cake. And then people start jumping out of the bus and shooting everywhere, and Puck really could die happy.

Except not. But whatever.

Once every single zombie is dead on the ground, he's happy for about three seconds until he realizes that they're not even close to done yet. Because Sue Sylvester is standing at the head of the group of students facing he and Rachel, and she's pointing her weapon at them.

"What are you doing?" Quinn asks in a low voice.

"They may have been bitten," Sue replies.

"No, no, we totally weren't," Puck says. "Right, Rachel?"

Rachel nods wordlessly and as enthusiastically as possible. Sue rolls her eyes.

"You know, even if I didn't think that the world was a place filled with selfish liars who would do anything to avoid being left behind even if it meant turning their friends into zombies, I wouldn't believe you. I _know _you. You would sell your own parents to get a shot at Broadway, so why wouldn't you lie to get on this bus? And you, Puckerman. You're the most amoral and idiotic teen I've ever come across in my years of teaching. At least Hudson had decency, even if he didn't have brains."

"This is ridiculous," Emma says, stepping forward to stand beside Sue. "We're not leaving them here."

"We are if we want to live."

"No. That's not right. I know you want to protect yourself, but that's no reason to just _assume_…"

"Assume what, that a couple of kids attacked by a horde of zombies were bitten at least once? I don't think that's too much of an assumption to make."

"Sue, this is crazy," Will agrees. "You're not making any sense."

"I'm making total sense."

"You're _not_. Are you really so scared that you're willing to abandon these kids here? You're not thinking rationally. Sue, come on. Look at me. Think about what you're suggesting. If they turn, we'll do what we have to do. Keeping them from getting on the bus isn't solving the problem. If you keep them from the bus, you're no better than those things."

"William, that is a horrendously erroneous statement. When I start eating people alive, refuse to bathe myself, and wander the streets like a homeless person, you can tell me that I'm as bad as those creatures." She pauses for a moment. "This is ridiculous. This is utterly ridiculous. I'm not going."

Will, who had been expecting her rancor but not this sudden, quiet decisiveness, sputters, "What?"

"I know this is probably difficult to understand…"

"No, Sue, this is _impossible_ to understand. I know you like to be in control at all times, but this is a little ridiculous even for you. If you're trying to send a big, _brash_ message, then congratulations. We all know how disappointed you are in everything we've done. You've managed to make that your only focus during one of the most trying times in the history of the world."

"_One_ of?" Kurt asks no one in particular.

"William, as difficult as this may be for you to believe, this is not about you. This is not about your hair _or _the baby birds currently residing within it. This is not about the germ princess and your disgusting Victorian era affection for one another. I'm not going. It's not a threat, as tempted as I am to threaten bodily harm so I can witness the impressive shade of white that you turn every time you forget to hide the fact that you sincerely fear me. It is a statement of fact. As the only real adult in this group, I am licensed to make such assertions. Whatever problems you have with it can be taken up with any one of these kids. I don't care. As long as you're not talking to me."

"Sue, this is crazy," Will points out again. She just rolls her eyes, shoulders her weapon, and starts to walk away.

"Where will you even go?" Emma asks, near hysterical even though she can't quite figure out why because it's not like losing Sue's company will make any of them less happy to be alive.

"There are a lot of zombies left in this town, Ginger," Sue replies, casting one more dramatic look over her shoulder for good measure. "And I've still got a lot of ammo."

Will still expects her to change her mind as they all stand and watch her silently make her way down the street, walking just as fiercely as she's walked down the halls every day.

"I'm so confused right now," Mercedes admits finally. "She's leaving because we wouldn't let her kill Puck and Rachel?"

"Yeah, I'm going to need some serious explanation for this one," Mike replies.

"She can't handle being responsible for other people," Emma answers, but Will doesn't think that really covers it. It _touches _on it, yes. Obviously Sue hates feeling like she was at all responsible for Brittany's death, and there's a high probability that she's no longer as confident in her actions as she once was. But he also thinks that Sue doesn't _want _to go to a place where decisions will be made for her. Sue has always been happiest as a Great White shark in the tiny Koi pond that was Lima. And with the advent of the zombie apocalypse, things were looking up even _more _than usual for her. She was the only person left in town who still knew what it meant to be a combat veteran, and she milked that for all it was worth.

Going to a place where there would be people of power to contend with was not on Sue's list of favorite ideas. He had known that from the beginning. But he really didn't think that she would rather forfeit the comfort of familiar company than face the loss of what little power she had managed to convince herself she possessed. It's a dark sort of realization, and he doesn't want to say it out loud, so he just lets Emma's assertion stand.

"Come on," he says finally. "If she wants to follow us, she knows the way."

He beckons to Puck and Rachel, who finally start making their way through the pile of bodies that separates them from the rest of the group. With everyone eying them warily, the two adolescent soldiers climb onto the bus and quickly take a seat in the back, sequestered from everyone else. Will gives Mike and Matt the silent order to watch and make sure that they don't turn into zombies, but he's confident that neither is so selfish as to put the other in harm's way. He doesn't even think that they're selfish enough to put _anyone_ in harm's way, as much as Sue seemed convinced of their ruthlessness. Maybe back when stuff like that _mattered_, they would have sold anyone out for a chance at stardom, or popularity, but things are different. Things are irredeemably different, and Will thinks that Rachel and Puck are maybe the people who understand that best of all.

* * *

Rachel and Puck _are _the people who understand it best of all.

Artie and Tina still talk in references to TV shows and movies. They cling to the recent past with all the fortitude that denial can possibly offer.

Santana understands that changes have taken place, but she does not consider the big picture. Beyond her sphere of existence, she does not think of anything. No thoughts of other towns, states, countries enter her mind, because she has firmly convinced herself that she can only be bothered to worry about the things that immediately affect her.

Quinn worries constantly about herself, about other people, and next to Puck and Rachel she's probably the person most conscious of the effects of the apocalypse, but she lacks their capacity to deal with it on an emotional level. The tribulations of herself and the rest of the world are the only things on her mind. Solutions to _any _problems, small or large, escape her in her anxiety.

Mercedes can think only of her parents. She can only wonder and hope that she gets _some _information, because not knowing where they are or if they are alive is killing her.

Kurt is hopeless, sees no possible good in the future of continued existence, and wonders how long he has left before he, too, is a casualty of this horrible accident.

Emma thinks of the future, thinks of surviving problems of the old world in this new world so different from the last. She glosses over the real problem, the bloody and painful and deadly problem, because she does not want to acknowledge its existence. She does not want to see herself torn to pieces in her own mind. She cannot let herself focus on everything that needs to be focused on because her fears are simply too great.

Mike and Matt, even though Mike rarely ever played video games, can think only of kill numbers and headshots. Both Mike and Matt are lucky in that they _know _their parents are dead. They do not live with the uncertainty of Artie or Mercedes or Puck or Santana. They know that they have no one in the world beside each other, and so their awareness of the problem only extends so far.

Will, even Will, has tunnel vision of the kids. He does not worry about the changes. He does not worry about the zombies. He only worries about the kids in his care, because if he stops to think too much about the other stuff, he'll lose his mind.

Only Rachel and Puck understand completely, and this is only because they were both so jaded before the zombie apocalypse that they had no illusions of grandeur on the part of humanity. Rachel knew from her own dark desires that people would stop at nothing to obtain the goals that they wanted. Puck knew that people could only be bothered to care so long as it didn't inconvenience them, because that was the principle on which his entire personality had been founded. They understood the way that the underbelly of the world worked because, had their lives continued on the course they had set upon, they would have eventually _become _the underbelly. Rachel would have been a star, but a fleeting one, eventually spiraling down into the despair that the least prepared of failed actresses take. Puck would have stayed the same, would have lived alone and friendless.

Neither consciously understands why they have adapted so quickly to the new way of things. They don't understand that it's because they held no illusions. Rachel glamorized her life because she knew deep down that life wasn't very glamorous at all, and Puck controlled the students around him because he knew that once high school was done, so was the influence he had so cultured within the student body. They knew that the world wasn't perfect and they adapted to this realization in their own way. The zombie apocalypse was just another way that the world continued to fail them, and they had adapted once again.

Puck tended to prefer to think that he was just awesome, and Rachel preferred to think that it was yet another way that her improvisational skills were above and beyond what anyone her age could hope to achieve. It was easier, truthfully, to not think about it at all. But during that quiet two hour drive to Columbus, it's harder to keep themselves from thinking about it than they would like. No one is talking about much of anything, and they only have the company of each other to content themselves with. Everyone else is much too busy suspecting them of having being bitten while also keeping an eye out for any unforeseen large clumps of zombies.

Finally speaking to her for the first time since he yelled at her to not get zombified, Puck says, "You were really badass out there, you know."

Rachel beams with such suddenness that Puck can't help but smile too.

"Thank you, Noah! I think it goes without saying that your magnificence was similarly recognized by myself."

"Pretty much. We made an awesome team."

"That has been true for the majority of our zombie killing partnership," Rachel points out with pride. Puck smiles and agrees, and he's not really sure _why _he reaches over and grabs her hand, but he knows why he doesn't let go.

* * *

Will prepares the kids for their arrival to Columbus by shouting at them to wake up. He's not sure _how _they managed to fall asleep during a tense two-hour bus ride, but most of them did. Only Mercedes and Mike remained awake, and Mike's starting to look a little drowsy when they finally roll up to the hospital.

"Everyone grab your stuff," Will says authoritatively. "We shouldn't waste any time in getting up there. We're early, which is good, but we don't have a lot of time to waste sitting around and feeling bad for ourselves."

"I don't think we need a pep talk," Kurt replies gently.

"Yeah, Mr. Schue. There's no way in hell we're spending more time than we absolutely need to in that creepy ass building," Santana sighs, staring up at the desolate hospital in front of her.

"That place is probably loaded with zombies," Puck says brightly to Rachel. She smiles at him and retrieves her black headband from her back pocket, pushing it into her hair deftly.

"I do believe that it is probably time to amp up our already enviable teamwork to the next level."

"Yeah, whatever. We're not choreographing any fight moves, if that's what you're talking about again."

"I think it's a valid thing to consider, Noah, and if we survive this next encounter, I'm going to overpower you eventually with my dazzling logic."

"If I hear one more implication that we might _not _survive this, I'm going to slap your face," Quinn says from further up the aisle.

"Yeah, guys. This is a piece of cake," Artie replies happily as Matt carries him off the bus and sets him firmly in his wheelchair.

There are a few zombies around, but they're quickly dispatched with a few shots from Santana and Mercedes, who take point for the entrance into the hospital. Everyone exits the bus quickly and efficiently, grabbing their bags and shouldering them without complaint even though all of the bags are heavy. Puck and Rachel are the last to leave, and they take up the rear with all the pompousness that is to be expected of the two most celebrated zombie killers of the group.

Everything is going very according to plan, and that does not sit well with Will at all.

"Come on. We should get off the streets as quickly as possible," he says weakly, finding himself with very little patience for the miniature competition that seems to have developed between Mercedes and Santana in relation to their ability to protect the group from the encroaching zombies. Things like that were okay when they were at the school, but Columbus already feels different. They passed so many zombies in the bus that he can't help but think that they're going to draw all of them to their position if they don't hurry up. And then Sue will have been right, and he just can't have that, even if Sue isn't around to see it.

Santana is finally satisfied that she is the better zombie killer – a fact that even Mercedes would have been hard-pressed to honestly argue against – when Mercedes attends to Will's wishes and Santana gets in the last kill. And even though it's not the loud report of Santana's rifle that _causes _the subsequent actions of the zombies, it's still hard to later look back on it without acknowledging the cinematic beauty of the sudden loud moaning that arises from the zombies both within and outside of their sights, just as the last echoes of Santana's kill are dying through the city.

The moaning is loud and ghastly, and so sudden that everyone starts with visible shock upon hearing it. It's a collective thing, too. All in the same pitch. All with the same feverish desperation.

"What the hell?" Puck finally manages to ask. Rachel and Quinn clutch each other fearfully, momentarily forgetting that each has an unspoken personal code that they're not supposed to ever act as frightened as they feel. Tina instantly starts crying. It's almost a physical reaction to the frequency of the sound; low and rumbling in her chest like the too-loud bass of a nearby car with all its windows rolled up.

"It's the helicopter!" Will yells, suddenly hearing the sound of chopping blades over the moans of the dead.

"Holy shit, we have to haul some serious ass," Puck says shakily, and maybe it's because _he _even sounds afraid, but suddenly everyone is launched into motion. Santana and Mercedes push open the deactivated automatic doors and usher everyone inside before trying to push them closed again. They slide with some difficulty, but everyone knows that it's not going to be enough to keep out the horde that will soon be converging on their position in pursuit of the sounds made by the helicopter. They head to the elevators . And it's around the time that they realize the elevators don't work that they realize they're in for more trouble than they had even realized.

"Come on," Puck growls, and he swoops Artie out of his seat before Artie even has a chance to try and grab hold of his weapons. Rachel snags those when they clatter to the ground, and Tina quickly folds up the wheelchair and follows. It seems a little silly to be hauling a wheelchair all the way upstairs considering they're in a hospital and entirely surrounded by them, but Tina knows that Artie's really proud of the recent customizations he's done to it, what with the badass flames he painted on the wheels and the shotgun holster attached to the back, so she doesn't even for a moment consider putting it down.

They make it up two flights of stairs before they hear the doors breaking down and the zombies following after them. They're still moaning that horrible moan, and Tina's still crying, and Rachel's spouting off some nonsense about infrasound and how it inspires fear and dread in people, and how it's actually sort of an ingenious evolutionary thing for the zombies to have, even though she's not sure why, and everyone is telling her to shut up while they're feeling all those feelings of panic and dread that she's describing, and no one's sure what to do at all.

Only Emma remains calm, which is probably the strangest thing that has happened all day. Apparently not sensitive to the physically disruptive effects of the zombie moans, she calmly opens the door on the third-floor landing and ushers everyone off the stairwell, blocking the door with the handle of a nearby mop when everyone's through.

"There's another staircase on the other side of the building," she says calmly. "Farther away from the front door. The zombies are mindless, thoughtless creatures. They won't find it."

Her assertion isn't necessarily the sort of thing that can immediately be identified as accurate, but the rest of the group follows her blindly. She and Santana and Mercedes shoot any zombies that stand in their way, while Puck and Rachel slowly bring up the rear of the group, eyes constantly turned over their shoulder to see if the mop handle has been broken yet. Neither of them want to see the horde of zombies as it surges through the doorway, but both know that they can't afford to miss it. The zombies aren't fast – the fact that they're still alive is testament enough to that – but the zombies are determined, and the group is slow-moving and frightened. Constant awareness is of the utmost importance.

"We're going to make it," Kurt says again with the most cheerful of smiles, except for the fact that his eyes are wide with horror and fear and a very relatable sense of freaking-the-fuck-out.

"Of course we are," Emma agrees sagely, and Will is even starting to buy into her whole confidence thing.

"Thanks for carrying me," Artie says brightly to Puck. Puck just grunts his "you're welcome" and tries to look like he's not already exhausted. Artie might be a small kid, but Puck is fucking terrified, and is fear is not doing a whole lot to help his buffness.

Their movements through the labyrinth of hallways are silent and watchful. They all are trusting Emma's memory of her visits to the hospital to see her dying mother, even though most of them had trouble trusting her with their class registration last term.

It's right when they reach the stairwell that things start to go wrong.

There's a zombie making his way up the stairs that Santana fails to see as she pushes open the door. He's hidden just _so_ behind the white railings and the lip of the landing, and she's already halfway up the flight of stairs before it reaches the group and clamps onto Matt's arm.

Matt has always been the stoically brave sort of person who thought that he deserved more credit for his good nature and constant cheer in the face of the zombie apocalypse than he was ever given, but even _he _cannot hide his pain and terror. He knows what the bite means, and he knows that even if he manages to pull his arm free and kill the zombie, he's still a dead man. Mike is screaming and trying to shoot around him to get the fucker whose teeth are holding deep into Matt's forearm, but there are other zombies coming. They're coming _quickly_, too. Scrambling up the staircase over each other, looking like demons trying to scramble out of hell.

But Matt knows exactly what to do, because Coach Sylvester told him to do it, and she was sometimes right about things even though most of the time she was just crazy.

"Go!" he yells to Mike, punching the zombie in the face and hearing the fingers in his bones crack painfully. Mike looks torn, lost, sad beyond all belief, and Matt wishes that they could have a sort of 'bye, bro' moment like they have in the movies, like _Pearl Harbor _but less lame and without the pregnancy part (or Kate Beckinsale, which is a bummer). It's just, there's no time for shit like that. They're all going to die if they don't get out of there.

"Hurry!" Rachel shouts, shoving Mike away from the door and making room for Puck, who's red in the face as he tries to find the energy to carry Artie up the stairs. He lurches behind Tina, who sends Matt one last silent look of gratitude that almost makes Matt want to cry or something. Artie waves sadly, Quinn cries, Kurt refuses to look but squeezes Matt's shoulder as he runs by. Rachel kisses his cheek. The zombie recovers from Matt's punch and tries to get at him again. Matt shoves it down the stairs, and it tumbles into some of its hideous friends, knocking them all back down to the other landing. There they lay like turtles, trying to get to their feet. It's only a matter of time, but at least he bought a few seconds.

"What are you going to do?" Mike asks, frantic and uncertain.

"What Coach told us to do if we got into a situation like this," Matt replies sadly. He doesn't _want _to do it. He's terrified. He doesn't know the first thing about it, and he's worried that he's going to fuck it up. But he has to do it, because it's the only way he can help his friends.

"Oh, God," Mike whispers, looking sick. He throws his arms around Matt suddenly, so briefly that it's like it doesn't even happen, and then he's hurrying up the stairs with everyone else.

"Yell down when you're three floors up," Matt says.

"I will," Mike replies, and even though neither of them _says _anything about how much they actually really do care, it's implied in the way they look at each other. Mike and Matt have never been the sort of people who need a lot of words to get their emotions across, and it would be clear to anyone who happened to be watching that they say everything that they need to say in just a few meaningful looks.

Mike disappears from Matt's view, but Matt can still hear his feet slamming on the metal stairs. It echoes all around him, almost as loud as the horrifying sounds of the zombies, and it makes Matt feel very lonely and very afraid.

He grabs his assault rifle off his back and opens fire on the zombies that are getting a little too close to the steps for comfort. It drowns out the sounds of the running feet above and the sobs of Quinn and Tina and Kurt and Will and Emma and whoever else is crying for him. It's sad that this is the most appreciated he's ever felt by the whole group, and it's only because he's not going to be around much longer.

"Okay," Mike yells down the stairs, and Matt gets why he doesn't say anything more. He just hopes that Mike doesn't come to regret not saying anything more poignant or something. Matt's happy with what he got.

"Okay," he yells back, and then he opens his backpack.

* * *

Four floors up, Quinn is trying to convince them all that they should go back and help him. She doesn't _actually _think that there's anything they can do: she saw the zombie quite clearly bite him, and that's a death sentence. They all know that by now. They all learned that the hard way. But it just seems like the only thing that she can say. Like she should be _fighting _for something for him, since he's down there shooting at the zombies like he's _not _going to be one of them as soon as he turns. The whole situation is unfair and confusing, and she's exhausted and falling over herself. She has no idea what to do or what to say, but she doesn't want to leave him. She doesn't want him to die.

No one else is supposed to die.

"We can't go back," Will is saying, keeping his arm around her shoulder as he practically drags her up the stairs. "Quinn, you know we can't go back."

"He shouldn't have to be alone!" Quinn all but screams at him, even though she's not _mad, _not really, not at Will. She's mad at the whole situation, at the injustice of random, unpreventable deaths. It's so ridiculous that you get _bitten _and then suddenly there's no hope. She's always been raised to think that no situation is hopeless, but this one _is_, and she hates the fact that they're just expected to deal with all these things that are happening.

She remembers the way that Rachel said, "we're just kids", and she can't stop crying about how true and horrible that fact is. They've been raised in an era where parents protect and shield their children from horrible things. But horrible things _happen_, and they're happening now, and they don't have any idea what to do about them. Quinn least of all.

"He shouldn't be alone," Tina agrees when no one replies to Quinn's assertion, but Mike shakes his head and prevents Tina from turning around.

"He has to be," he says gently. And, as if on cue, there's an explosion. It doesn't quite rock the building, and it doesn't make everyone fall and scream and flail about, but it _does _shock them into silence, and they _do _feel the hot wind that blows up from the floors below. It's not as cinematic as Matt would have wanted, Mike knows, but it's just as dramatic. Matt would have been satisfied.

"What was that?" Will asks after the shock has worn off. The moans have dimmed from below them. Rachel stares down at the slices of carnage that she can see in the gaps between the institutionally white railings and stairs.

"Coach told us that if we were ever bitten, she didn't want us going out like losers. She said she wanted us to take out as many of those motherfuckers as we could."

Mike is crying a little, and Will feels bad pressing him for information, but he's livid and confused and feeling a little betrayed by the fact that they haven't mentioned this before.

"She gave you explosives?" he asks. He's not sure why it's a surprise.

"The night before we left. Matt was done. He knew that. We all knew that. That explosion would have taken out a shitload of them."

He sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than he's trying to convince the others, so Will doesn't press him anymore about it. Quinn is crying on his shoulder, Artie is crying into _Puck's _shoulder, and all the kids look disheartened and terrified. He needs to be strong for them, like he's needed to be strong for everyone so far.

He's just haunted by the fact that he wasn't strong when it counted, for Matt. He kept running up the stairs with the rest of them, and in hindsight it's more cowardly than he can bear.

"Let's keep going," he says darkly, and even though Quinn sobs a little, she doesn't protest. Emma keeps leading the way with only slightly less confidence than before. No one can pretend that their hearts aren't broken for poor Matt. Even Jacob sheds a tear.

But Matt won't be the last of the casualties at the end of the next ten minutes. And even though it would pain him to hear it admitted, he won't be the most painful.

* * *

It becomes perfectly clear who is going to be left behind when they reach the roof access.

It's a ladder.

"No," Puck says instantly when he hears Artie's resigned sigh. "No way, man. We're not leaving you behind. I can carry you up that."

But they can all hear the sounds of the zombies approaching from somewhere much closer than they had anticipated.

"We can find another way," Emma says. "I'm sure there's a stairwell around here."

"Yeah," Puck replies. "Everyone else get to the roof. We'll find another way."

He helps Artie back into his wheelchair with Tina's guidance. Will tries to insist that they'll all go together, but Emma shakes her head vehemently. Santana is already halfway up the ladder. Kurt is ready to follow.

"Will, you know we can't. We need to get up there and meet with Paul in the helicopter. He's already up there. If he thinks that we haven't showed up, he'll take off."

"Yeah, see, man?" Puck says lightly, like it's not a big deal. "We'll be fine."

He smiles weakly, but Artie is shaking and pale, and Puck is still out of breath and looking more and more exhausted, and Will has this horrible feeling that if he lets them go on their own, it's the last that he's ever going to see of them.

"I'll go with you," he says.

"No way," Emma replies.

"Yeah, Mr. Schue, please. Come with us. Puck and Rachel can handle it," Mercedes says quietly, sounding more like a little girl than anything else.

"Rachel's going with you," Will replies. He detaches himself from Quinn's sobbing frame and passes her resolutely to Rachel. Rachel accepts her charge with silence, looking with wide eyes towards Puck.

"I'd like to go with Noah and Artie," she says quietly, but Will shakes his head.

"You need to get up there and help them out. I can't let them do this alone. I'm your _teacher_."

"I take French," Rachel sobs, but she knows that it doesn't negate his point. He's responsible for them. And maybe it's not _legally_ responsible anymore, but she knows that he would never forgive himself if he let Puck and Artie leave and didn't go with them. She hugs him as best as she can in addition to already hugging Quinn, and then she backs away and starts directing people up the ladder. The moaning and crying of the zombies on the stairwell is getting closer, and she starts feeling that senseless panic again. Tina refuses to climb, positioning herself firmly behind Artie's chair, and Rachel gets Quinn on the ladder directly after Emma. Then she turns to Puck and quietly smiles at him.

"See you soon," she says, clenching her hands into fists at her side as she resists the urge to run to him and kiss him and say her last goodbyes like she feels she ought. It would be very dramatic, but even though she has every reason to be dramatic, she doesn't want to be. She wants to believe that she's going to see him in five minutes and all thoughts of melodrama will be cause for future embarrassment. He seems to understand – God, she hopes he understands – and he just smiles at her and nods.

"I know," he says.

And his posture and the situation are just so familiar, but she doesn't realize until she's up the ladder and on the roof, breathing cool air and dodging Jacob's attempted embrace, that he was trying to make a _Star Wars _reference, and that maybe he was just a little bit trying to tell her that he loves her. Maybe just a little.

* * *

Puck _does _love Rachel just a little, and it's so embarrassing, but he can't exactly help it. He _tried _at first, but then it just got all out of hand with the zombies and the hotness and the way she let him cry about shit and then didn't judge him afterwards. That was really sort of special, and as he pushes Artie along the linoleum as fast as his aching, tired muscles can take him, he finds himself strangely motivated by the promise of seeing her again once he's finished. Once he finds the stupid stairwell and can finally stop carrying Artie places and can just _sit _and _rest_ and hopefully sleep for a little while, because he's about to drop dead of exhaustion and he truly believes that would be the lamest way to die. Especially in context.

"It's gotta be this way," Will says, pulling them down some random hallway. Puck isn't really sure what's going on, so he just follows Will blindly, like he trusts the guy or something. Behind him, he can hear the sounds of the zombies gaining ground, and in front of him he's pretty sure he can hear some serious pounding-on-doors action that pretty typically signifies zombie presence, so he just really hopes that Will is as right as he thinks he is.

"We should have just tried to get you up the ladder," Tina says, and she sounds so _angry_ that Puck is taken aback. Artie looks confused, chastised, and most of all regretful.

"Well, it's a little late for that," Puck growls. "You could have mentioned it sooner."

He knows that Tina is only saying that because she's scared. He guesses that he's only saying it because _he's _scared too, but he'd rather not to admit to being scared, or to being _terrified_, which is what he _really _is. Plus that ladder was _really _long, and Puck knows that there's no way he would have ever been able to carry Artie up that thing, so arguing about it like there were ever _options _is completely useless.

"Come on, guys," Will says absently, but he's really too focused on finding them the stairwell to the roof to mediate an argument.

"The stupid designer of this stupid building should have just allowed access to the roof on _all _the stairwells," Tina yells. "This is so dumb!"

Getting mad at the architect is significantly less hurtful than being mad at Artie, so Will lets it slide.

Finally, they spot a big yellow sign that says "roof access". They take the corner at a dead run, and find the sought-after stairwell to the roof clogged with zombies trying to break through the metal doors at the top of the stairs. There are just _too many_ zombies, and still more of them coming up behind them, and there's no way they can even foolishly hope to kill them all.

"You need to get out of here," Artie says, and Puck is just so damn angry that he wants to smack the kid in the face.

"There's nowhere to go," he says, his voice taking on a damning edge of panic as he watches the zombies closest to them turn around at the sound of their voices.

"You can go back to the ladder," Artie says hopefully.

"How? Fucking _how_, Artie? There are zombies up our ass!"

"I don't know! But you have to get out!"

Artie is hysterical with fear and guilt, and Will is breaking down, and Tina is staring around like she doesn't even _see _anything. They're at a dead end, and Puck knows that, but he still backs them into the nearest room and slams the door behind them.

"Fuck. What the fuck are we going to do?" he asks Will, yanking him way from Tina and Artie. Even though they're all facing near certain death together, there's just something way too innocent about Tina and Artie. It's like talking about near certain death in front of little kids. You just don't do it.

"I don't know…is there anything we _can _do? We can try to take some of them out. We can…we can kill as many as we can, and then what? There's nothing else, is there? We're going to die, we might as well do it…do it quick?"

"No, fuck that," Puck says automatically, even though a few days ago he was completely resigned to the idea of killing himself if it didn't look like there were any other options. Now, his blood is pumping hot and he's so angry that if he doesn't kill as many of those stupid bastards as he possibly can, his death will be the lamest thing ever.

"What other options do we have?"

"We can get out. We have to."

"We can't, Puck. Look around. In two seconds, those zombies are going to be in here. They're going to tear us to pieces, and no matter _how _many we kill, there will be others behind them. I've never seen so many. I never even thought there could _be _so many in one place. How the hell are we supposed to survive this? We can't. We just _can't_."

Puck turns from Will, realizing that it's useless to try and talk to him. He sees it too: he sees that it's hopeless and that there's no conceivable way that they can get out, but he doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to admit it. He watches Tina and Artie talking quietly in the corner, crying and kissing each other and whispering that they probably love each other and shit.

And all Puck could manage was a stupid _Star Wars _reference.

He runs his hands through his hair with frustration, slamming his fists on the bloody hospital bed in the corner of the room. It smells like shit in here, and this just _can't _be the end of his life. He can't not see Rachel again, or Quinn and his daughter, or any of those other kids he used to hate so much. He's come too far to die trapped in a corner.

He grabs his gun and heads for the door, eyes blazing.

"Where are you going?" Will asks.

"I'm going to distract them," Puck spits, bitterness forming his every thought. "There's a room down the hall. I'll lock myself in there, take out as many as I possibly can, get their attention. You wait until they're away from the door, and then you run like fuck down the hallway, okay? All of you. You go back to that ladder and you get Artie to safety, and you tell Rachel…tell her…whatever. She knows."

He turns away from Will, ready to make his last stand. So he's going to die, so he's never going to see Rachel or Quinn or his baby. He's not even going to see any of those stupid kids. But at least he will have proven to himself that he's _worth _something. At least his baby's mother will tell the kid stories about how brave he was in his last minutes. Maybe she'll even gloss over all the bad parts.

And Rachel will be strong. She'll get over it. She'll find someone like Finn with a good heart and a not-so-good brain, and she'll end up with her Prince Charming like she was always supposed to. He was just her second best, anyway. He was just the replacement for the guy she could never have.

He's not bitter, though. How could he be bitter? He was fucking _happy _with her, and that was amazing. Because he'd never really been happy before. And he knows that it's kind of shitty to return the favor by going and getting himself killed, but he figures she will at least enjoy the dramatics that come with being the sort-of widow of a martyr.

He turns away from Will, ready as he's ever going to be, and he sees that the door is already open. Artie and Tina are gone.

And before he can exit the room completely, he's hit with the wall of fire from the explosion.

* * *

_This _explosion rocks the building. It knocks the people on the roof to the ground. It causes screams of terror and fear. Emma tries to corral the kids, but she's white as a sheet and shaking. The helicopter pilot, Ballard, tries to ask what the hell that was, but no one can answer. They can only think about Matt's bomb, and Matt's sacrifice, and they can only wonder who else Coach Sylvester talked to about "taking one for the team".

"Oh, God," Quinn sobs finally, closing her eyes and shaking her head and retreating again to Rachel's waiting embrace. Truth is, Rachel needs the comfort just as much as she's willing to give it out, but all she gets is an awkward pat on the shoulder from Santana, who looks pained but composed, as always. Rachel isn't sure _how_.

"Maybe they just set a trap," she says, staring hopefully at the doors that lead to the stairwell. The pounding on the other side of it has ceased. "Maybe they just blew up the zombies and now they're going to emerge right there."

They wait, anticipating Rachel's prediction, but the doors don't open. Artie does not appear, triumphantly wielded in Puck's arms. Tina does not follow, carrying Artie's wheelchair and smiling exultantly at their near escape. Will does not follow bashfully behind to rejoin his frightened flock.

Nothing happens. Except, slowly, the pounding on the metal doors recommences.

Rachel feels tears prickling behind her eyelids. Horrified pins and needles rush up and down her arms as she smothers Quinn with her fear-based affection.

"We need to make sure," she whispers. "We can't leave without making sure."

"Don't open that door," Ballard orders.

"No, I mean…the ladder," she says weakly, trying to pull away from Quinn. Quinn releases her reluctantly, and Rachel darts forward. She's halfway back to the door that hides the ladder when it flies open. She freezes, blindly groping for the pistol at her waist, but lets her hand fall when she sees Will pull himself from down below. She runs forward to help him, barely daring to hope. But when Will moves out of the way and she sees that foolish mohawk following him, her heart leaps into her throat.

But then Puck stands up and slams the trap door behind him. And then he pushes right past her and strides towards Mike. And then he punches Mike in the face.

Rachel stands frozen, thinking that surely Tina and Artie are still waiting downstairs. Surely Puck has just forgotten about them. But Will is walking away, too. But surely they can't be dead. Surely that kind of cruelty would not be allowed to happen.

"You son of a bitch," Puck shouts. Rachel sees that he's bleeding, that his face is scratched and blistered in places, that he's favoring his right arm. She sees all of these things, and she understands.

"I'm sorry," Mike says, spitting out the blood that's pooled in his mouth.

"What did you tell him, huh? Did you try to make him feel more useless than he already did? Did you tell him he'd be better off killing himself and taking out a few of the zombies on the way?"

"No, man, come on! No! I just said, if he found himself in a tight spot…"

"They fucking _killed _themselves because of what you said, you _asshole_!" Puck bellows. The sounds echo and converge over their heads, darting through the empty streets loud and damning. Mike is silent until the echo fades.

"That's rich, Puckerman. Coming from you. Locking kids in port-o-potties, throwing slushies at chicks, _that_'s the kind of shit that makes kids kill themselves. Artie made a choice."

"You _asshole_," Puck growls again, but some of the fire has gone out of it. Looking utterly exhausted, he turns away. He turns towards Rachel, who's waiting for him with her hands to her mouth and her eyes wide with sadness. She sees whatever signal he's unconsciously giving off with his slumped shoulders, and she runs to him, flinging herself into his arms. Even though he's tired, and his muscles ache from carrying _Artie_, poor Artie, he lifts her into the air and hugs her crushed against him. And there, in front of everyone, he loses his shit and cries.

Rachel isn't long in doing the same. And then Quinn joins them in both the crying and the hugging, and all jealousy and past regrets can be forgiven for just this moment (but don't think that means it's over, because it will _never _be over, not as long as the three of them still live. And the three of them will live for a long, long time together, in a strange sort of family unit that no one will pretend to understand).

Ballard helps them all onto the helicopter. They're beaten, bruised, confused, and heartbroken.

"We're free," Quinn says to no one in particular. "No one's going to die now."

Ballard doesn't agree, just looks over his shoulder at her and smiles a little.

"There's a doctor at my camp," he says. "She'll be glad to see you. She used to deliver babies for a living. Now she does triage."

Quinn smiles down at her stomach and brushes her hand lovingly over it. Ballard hands her a blanket and makes sure she's strapped in. When he turns around and walks to Will and Emma, he's tall and moves like Finn, and she cries quietly into her hands.

Will kisses Emma gently before she gets into her seat beside Jacob. Jacob's sobbing with grateful relief, and it's hard not to resent him for surviving when so many more useful and wonderful people died. Kurt and Mercedes are seated next to him, and they do their best to extend their friendship to him in their shared grief over losing Tina and Artie. Santana sits on the other side of Quinn, and the way her knuckles are white as she holds on to the straps of her bag is the only way she shows her emotions.

Before the helicopter starts and makes further conversation impossible, Rachel turns to Puck and sadly whispers, "We're going to make it, right?"

Puck manages to smile despite everything that's twisting and burning inside him, and he squeezes her hand tightly with his own.

Ballard starts up the motor. The rotors whirl above, chopping through the air and eliciting more moans from the horde amassed inside the hospital. They finally break through the metal doors, but that's long after the helicopter is already off the helipad and angling toward where their sanctuary lies.

Puck has never been a hopeful person, but as he watches the ground get smaller, he feels sure that even though things are horrible – worse than they've ever been in both his life and the history of the world – they can only get better.

* * *

It's a long road, one paved with far more challenges for our heroes. But eventually, one day, when he tells this story to his daughter, surrounded by Rachel and Quinn and Santana and Will and Kurt and everyone else who has, against all odds, survived and made an irreversible impact in his life, he will end his tale with, "it could only get better. And eventually, one day, it did."

Well, everything gets better other than the fact that Sue Sylvester eventually _walks_ her way to Canada and leaves a swath of destruction across the U.S. unlike anything ever known to man. But Puck isn't in the habit of giving his child nightmares, so that's a story better left untold.


End file.
